


Gideon's Girl

by LindaO



Series: Spencer Stories [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Throw-back to when Prentiss was new, and Reid might have a little crush, guilt over Boston, lots of flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindaO/pseuds/LindaO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casefic. Jason Gideon got his friend killed in Boston, and he carries that guilt with him every day. Now the friend's widow is missing on the anniversary of the bombing, and their only child is frantic to find her. Gideon will need his whole team to get her back -- and they are not about to be left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this years ago on That Other Fanfic site, but somehow never posted it here. Now that I've fallen in love with CM again I'm considering a sequel, so I dusted it off, fixed some obvious problems (we didn't used to know Spencer could drive!) and am posting it as a Throw-Back Thursday story. 
> 
> All translations provided by AltaVista's Babel Fish Translation (told you it was an old story!). All blame for misuse or mistranslation is on me.

_Oscar Wilde wrote, "To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness."_

_***_

Emily Prentiss passed through Quantico's security gate with habitual inattention. Same agents, same procedure, same rote greetings. _Maybe we’ll get some sun today. Can’t believe it’s raining again. Have a good day_. She kept the polite smile on her face, but she barely noticed the men she was talking to. Instead, she was looking around for any of her teammates.

None in the lobby. She glanced at her watch. On a normal day, Reid and Gideon would already be upstairs by this time. Maybe Hotchner. Morgan would wander in later, looking like he'd shaved in his car – which he frequently did. JJ and Garcia were a little less predictable, usually arriving about the same time she did. It was the rhythm of the team, she had learned. Predictable, habitual. The routine. And yesterday, the whole routine had been turned on its ear.

Yesterday Gideon had called in sick.

In the months she'd been with the BAU, Gideon had never missed a day of work. He never even took his scheduled days off. But yesterday he was off, and the rest of the team might as well have been. All of them had been alternatively sullen and snappish, angst-filled and angry. No one seemed to want to talk about it. When she'd asked Morgan what was going on with Gideon, he'd just glared at her before he walked away. It was Garcia who had finally, mercifully, whispered the secret word in her ear.

Boston.

It had been the third anniversary of Boston.

Everybody in the Bureau knew about Boston. Serial bomber Adrian Bale had been cornered in Boston. He threatened to blow up himself and his hostage; Gideon persuaded him into surrender. With Bale in custody, Gideon had sent six agents – one from the BAU, five from the local office – into the building to recover the bomb and free the hostage. The moment they were inside, Bale used a hidden remote to blow the bomb, bringing down the building and killing all seven people inside. Jason Gideon had suffered a complete mental breakdown and been off the team for six months.

Three years ago yesterday.

Gideon had stayed home, and the rest of the team should have.

Prentiss shook her head as she walked toward the elevator. Hopefully today they'd all be less twitchy. _Twitchy_ , she thought wryly. There was a fine psychological term for it. _In my professional assessment, the BAU was twitchy yesterday_. But it was accurate, too.

"Special Agent Prentiss?"

Prentiss turned towards the reception desk. The agent there – tall, blond, nose too big, Marcinek was his name – waved her over. "Agent Prentiss, this young lady is asking to see Special Agent Gideon. Can you sign her in?"

Prentiss walked over, examining the visitor in question. Young lady, indeed – maybe twenty, maybe three years either direction. A little shorter than Emily, a little heavier, curvier. Medium brown hair in a thick single braid that reached below her waist. Light complexion, smallish features that probably made her look younger than she was. Huge green eyes. Token make-up which did nothing to cover her obvious exhaustion. Jeans, leather loafers, scarlet polo shirt, tan jacket. Damp; the rain had slackened to a drizzle, but no umbrella in evidence.

She was trying hard to cover it, but it showed in her posture, her eyes, her curled hands, her tightly closed lips: The girl was scared to death.

Prentiss smiled with careful neutrality. "Of course. Is Agent Gideon in?"

Marcinek nodded. "He came in a few minutes ago, but no one's answering up in the office yet."

"Probably getting coffee." Prentiss took the clipboard and signed her name quickly next to the young woman's. Constance Grail. Who named their daughter Constance? "Thank you," she said, handing the clipboard back. "This way, Miss Grail."

The girl followed her onto the elevator without speaking. "Is Gideon expecting you?" Prentiss asked casually.

Grail shook her head. "No. I'm sure he's not." Her voice was very soft. She stared intently at nothing on the carpet.

There was a moment of silence. Prentiss swore inwardly. If she had Hotchner's talent, she'd have had the whole story out of the girl before they reached their floor. She didn't even know where to start. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm Emily Prentiss." She stuck her hand out.

The young woman eyed her, then swallowed visibly. "C-constance," she said uncertainly. "Constance Grail." After another awkward pause, she shook her hand very briefly.

"Your hands are freezing," Prentiss observed.

" _Si_." The girl went back to staring at the floor.

A chill crept up Prentiss' spine. What in the world was this girl so afraid of? What did it have to do with Gideon? And would Gideon be in any shape to deal with this, after yesterday? What did he do to commemorate the anniversary? Drink himself stupid? Prentiss would have.

And she hated the small, quiet voice inside that said, _good, give us a case, having something to do will get my team back to normal_.  

As they left the elevator, Gideon walked across the communal office, an open file in his hands and his head down over the contents. He still had his jacket on; evidently he'd detoured to pick something up on his way in. "Gideon!" Prentiss called, relieved. "Gideon, this is …"

She stopped, because Jason Gideon had turned to face them – no, to face _her,_ the girl, he didn't even know Prentiss was there – and the color had drained from his face. _Shit_ , Prentiss thought. She scanned the girl quickly. Constance would have had to come through the metal detector; she wasn't armed. She hadn’t even moved.

But Prentiss knew that look on Gideon's face, too. It was the look he got right before the unsub pulled the trigger. _I know she's not armed_ , she thought frantically. _She's smaller than me, smaller than him. What's he afraid of?_ She'd been sure Gideon would know what to do with this troubled young woman. It was alarming to think she was still the calmest person in the room.

Gideon walked to them slowly, dropping the file folder onto a desk on his way. It slithered to the floor, scattering papers. He didn't notice. He stopped three feet from them – from _her_ – and simply stared.

The girl still didn't move.

"Uh, Gideon," Prentiss said nervously, "this is, uh, this is Constance Gr…"

"I know," Gideon said faintly.  He swallowed visibly. His face was as white as his shirt. Then he shifted, and suddenly he was almost himself again. "What's wrong, Zee-Zee?" he asked in his very best calm-the-hysterical witness voice.

The girl flinched. _She knows that voice_ , Prentiss thought. _She resents it. She's not hysterical. Not yet._

Grail took a deep breath. Then she took another one and said, quickly, "Momdidn'tcomehomelastnightIcan'tfindherthepolicewon'thelpmeIdon'tknowwhereelsetogo."

It came out as one long word, a blur, but Gideon got it before Prentiss did. He seemed, oddly enough, relieved. "We'll find her," he answered firmly.  

The girl trembled. "I know you can't …"

Gideon moved closer and touched her arm gently. "You're my girl now, remember? We'll find her."

The girl licked her lips, and for the first time there were tears in her eyes. "Thank you.” Her voice quivered.

He smiled, the tight, warm, hurt smile. "C'mon, Peanut. Start at the beginning, tell me what happened." He moved closer still, put his arm around her shoulder. Constance leaned easily into his embrace as he steered her back towards the elevator.

"Ahhh …." Prentiss began. A case, and a million questions to start with. How long had the mother been missing? Where had she disappeared from? Why wouldn't the police help? And come to think of it, it didn't really sound like a BAU case at all, unless there were some extenuating circumstances, but she didn't care, a case was a case …

"Prentiss," Gideon said, "tell Hotch I'm taking the day off."

 _Two in a row?_ Prentiss thought, startled. "Uh, but aren't we …"

"This is a personal matter," Gideon replied, quietly but very firmly. "Tell him I'll call him later. Tell him … if a case comes in to call me, but if I don't answer go without me. I'll be back when I can."

"Ah … okay. But Gideon …"

"It'll be okay."

Whether this last was to her or to Constance, Prentiss couldn't tell. They were already walking away from her.

Prentiss floundered in their wake. "But … but … Gideon, come on …"

She was talking to the elevator's closing doors.

 ***

"How long has she been missing?" Gideon asked as the doors closed. He released Constance's shoulder, took her hand in his. Her fingers were cold, but they curled around his familiarly, as they had when she was a little girl. Trusting. In her touch, in her remarkable eyes, the same childlike trust she'd always had in him.

Even after he had betrayed that trust, hurt her so deeply, so unimaginably, even after what he had cost her …

He drove it back into a corner of his mind. That was then. This was now, and she needed him, needed to trust him. _First the living, then the dead._ "Zee?"

Constance took a deep breath. "She was flying in from London yesterday afternoon. She was going to meet me for dinner. Bremmers. She never showed up."

He nodded. "The flight was late. The weather."

She shook her head. "No. I mean, yes. She was supposed to fly in yesterday morning, we were going to spend the day …." She faltered. _The_ day. Then she squared her shoulders and went on. "That flight got cancelled. We were on the phone all day back and forth. She got a later flight and I was going to pick her up, but then the flight got delayed again. And then they lost one of her bags. With her laptop in it. They just sorta shrugged and had her fill out a claim form. She was furious. So she called me from the airport and she was starving, so she was taking a cab to Bremmers and she'd meet me there. It's like, halfway between the airport and the house. She told me to order for her as soon as I got there."

Gideon nodded. The elevator opened, and he walked her through the main lobby. People stared, him holding hands with this pretty young woman, and some of them probably recognized her, but he didn't have time to care. "So you went to the restaurant and waited. You thought maybe traffic, she couldn't get a cab, whatever."

Constance nodded. "I ordered, I waited. The food came, she didn't … I called her cell and it was shut off. She never shuts off her phone, Uncle Jason. Never." She gestured vaguely with her free hand. "I called the house, the neighbors. The airline. Everybody I could think of. Even our 9/11 contacts." She shook her head. "I went back to the house, back to the restaurant, out to the airport. And I keep trying her cell and she's not, she's not …"

They went out into the parking garage. It was early spring; a handful of sparrows were sheltering from the rain, already fighting over prime nesting spots. The sound stopped Constance dead. She stared in their direction, her face puzzled, listening intently.

Gideon knew that look, knew what she was listening for. "Zee," he said gently.

She snapped around, focused again, ashamed. "Sorry."

"Don't be, Peanut." He squeezed her hand. "You bring your car?"

"Yeah." She gestured to the visitor parking, but it wasn't necessary. Gideon had already spotted the car. _The_ car. The 1990 Jaguar XJS convertible, gold. Two seats, standard transmission, nothing but speed and elegance. It had been Tony's pride and joy.

His other pride and joy.

Gideon looked at the car, and then at the girl. She flinched, suddenly aware of his pain. "I'm sorry, I didn't think … I should have brought Mom's car, but I thought maybe I shouldn't touch it …"

He shook his head gently. "It's okay, Zee. It's okay." She looked miserably unconvinced. "Can I drive?"

She paused. They both heard her father, as if he'd been there with them, saying _'Oh, hell, no_.'  But she wasn't Tony, and she understood. With the first twinkle of life he'd seen in her, Constance handed the keys to him. "Don't tell anybody."

"I won't."

They got into the car, and Constance made a point of buckling her seatbelt. "Most of the clutch is in the top two inches," she said.

"Uh-huh." Gideon was busy adjusting the seats, the mirrors, his own seatbelt. Busy doing anything but starting the car. _It's just a car_ , he told himself. But it wasn't. It was a car that Tony Ford had cherished and fawned over, the third woman in his life. He had been Jason's friend, and Jason had killed him, and his beloved car was still here.

And the other two women, as well. One missing, one anxious beside him.

He started the car, stalled it twice backing out. It did not have the soft forgiveness of modern clutches. But he got it going forward with only a small jolt. By the time they reached the main road, he was fairly comfortable. The rain stopped, and for a moment he wished he could put the top down. Silly, really – too cold, too much spray. But the car wanted to run topless.

"Why not the local police?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Constance looked startled. She'd been listening to something else again. Probably, Gideon guessed, the throaty growl of the car's engine.

"You said the local police wouldn't help you, but you didn't mention calling them."

She chewed her bottom lip. " _Wir haben eine kleine Vorgeschichte_." 

Gideon glanced sharply at her. It had been a long time since he'd heard her do that. He kept his voice very calm. "In English, Peanut."

Constance took a sharp breath, nothing more, and corrected herself. "We have a little history."

"Uh-huh." He threaded the sports car onto the freeway. Going the right direction, for once; the traffic was all on the other side. Lots of room to let her run. Tony’s car liked to run. "I need to know, Zee."

She still hesitated. Then, business-like, she reported. "I got arrested for drunk and disorderly. And the arresting officer offered to not arrest me if I'd … ah …perform a certain sexual favor for him."

Gideon growled, kept his eyes on the road. "And you refused."

"Yes. In the booking room he repeated the offer. I declined. He groped me. I bit him."

"You _bit_ him?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you punch him?"

"I was handcuffed."

Gideon's knuckles were white on the wheel, his eyes narrowed to slits. So some muscle-bound cop had arrested a drunken young girl, offered her a free pass for a blow job, and then felt her up while she was handcuffed in custody. He couldn't _wait_ to meet him. "Go on," he said, as calmly as he could.

"I bit him," Constance repeated. "And he kinda freaked out and hosed me with pepper spray."

"In a closed interrogation room."

"Yes."

"How hard did you bite him?"

She shrugged. "I was scared and I was drunk and I was angry. I think when he heard the bones crunch was when he freaked."

Gideon paused. Bones crunching. Nice. _That's your girl, Tony. That's my girl now_. He knew he shouldn't approve, but he did. Completely. "So he maced the two of you in a small room."

"And then my mom showed up and … things got out of hand."

 _Oh yes_ , Gideon thought. _Oh, yes, have you met my mother, the international lawyer? And my …_ "Why didn't you call me?"

She hesitated for a long moment. "We called Aaron. He took care of it."

"Why didn't you call _me_?" Gideon said again.

"You weren't taking calls at the time."

The tightness in his fists had crept all the way up to Gideon's shoulders. There had only been one time in her whole life when he hadn't been there for Constance. The one time she'd needed him most. "I'm sorry, Zee."

Constance shook her head. "It's okay. Really. Hotch was great. In that suit, with that haircut … he brought out all the big scary words, federal investigation, civil rights violations, abuse of power … they fired the cop and all the charges went away. End of story."

"Except now you need them."

She looked out her window, suddenly very small and very young. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

Jason glanced at her, then took his hand off the stick shift and patted hers. "Zee-Zee, it's okay. It's okay. I just need to know what I'm walking into."

"We're going there?"

He nodded. "We're going there."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 ***

Hotchner blew in ten minutes after Gideon left. Prentiss stood up quickly. "Sir, I …"

"I'm late for a conference call," Hotch answered, taking the steps two at a time. He closed his office door firmly behind him.

Prentiss sighed and sat back down. "Okay." She pondered a minute, then picked up her phone.

The phone rang six times before a breathless voice said, "Facts are us, Garcia."

"It's Prentiss."

"No kidding."

"Can you do me a favor?"

"Can I take my coat off first? Maybe get a cup of coffee? Drain my shoes?"

Prentiss sighed. "Take your coat off. I'll bring you the coffee. You're on your own with the shoes. I need to know about a woman named Constance Grail."

"That name sounds familiar. I'll see what I can find. Black."

"What?"

"Coffee," Garcia clarified, "black, no sugar. Trying to cut down. I'm sweet enough as it is."

"Got it." Prentiss put down the phone. "Sweet enough. Wonder what Reid's excuse is?"

"Reid's excuse for what?"

Prentiss jumped, turned in mid-air to face Morgan. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Evidently."

"I've got to take Garcia some coffee."

"Good, get me a cup while you're at it."

"I don't think so."

Morgan pouted teasingly. "Oh, I see how it is."

"She's researching something for me."

"New case?"

"No. Well, maybe. Something's up. I got a weird vibe."

"Ahh, Prentiss is getting vibes now." Morgan shook his head, settled into his desk. "It was bound to happen. Tell me more. What are you vibing about?"

"This girl came in this morning to see Gideon. And the minute he saw her …"

"Wait, wait," Morgan said. "What girl? Is she in Gideon's office?"

"They left together. Gideon said he was taking the day off."

Morgan whistled softly. "Two in a row?" Then, "How old was this girl?"

"Maybe twenty. But Gideon treated her like she was a lot younger."

"They knew each other?"

"Definitely. They …"

"Hey," Garcia said as she walked over, "where's my coffee?"

"Getting it now," Prentiss said quickly.

"Well, never mind, 'cause I can't get you anything. The file’s sealed."

Morgan smirked. "You tellin' me your magic fingers can't open it, sweetness?"

"My magic fingers _can_ open just about anything," Garcia said firmly, "but they won't open this, because they don't want to cross the agent who sealed it."

Prentiss folded her arms. "Let me guess. Jason Gideon."

"Nope." Garcia looked around. There was no one else close enough to hear. "Tony Ford."

Morgan whistled softly.

"Tony Ford was one the BAU agent killed in Boston," Prentiss said, surprised.  

"Right," Garcia answered. "And I do not sneak around behind dead guys. They always find out."

Prentiss chuckled. "You're afraid of ghosts, Garcia?"

The computer wizard looked at her. "Aren't you?"

"No."

"I gotta admit," Morgan said, "this one, even I'm a little afraid of."

"Afraid of what?" Reid asked, dropping his damp, over-stuffed duffle on his desk. He ran his hand through his hair, wiped it on his pants. "Man, I wish it would stop raining."

"The ghost of Tony Ford," Garcia answered.

The young agent looked around quickly. "Where's Gideon?"

"He's not here," Prentiss said irritably. "He took the day off."

"Two in a row? That's not like him."

"He was here, but this girl came in …"

"Morning," JJ said brightly. "What am I missing?"

"Ghosts," Garcia said.

"Gideon's taking another day off," Reid added.

"And he's with a girl," Morgan completed.

JJ looked at them one at a time. "Oh." And then, "What?"

Prentiss growled. "Okay, once more, from the top. This girl came in first thing this morning, asking for Gideon."

"But he wasn't here," JJ said, "because he's taking the day off. Again. That's kinda weird, isn't it?"

"It's way weird," Reid agreed. "He never takes a day off."

"He _was_ here," Prentiss said, firmly steering the conversation back on track. "I brought the girl up, she told him her mother didn't show for dinner last night, and they left together."

"Little girl?" Reid asked, holding his hand out three feet over the floor.

"No. Early twenties."

"That's not a girl."

"Okay." Prentiss gritted her teeth. "This young woman. This very frightened young woman. Who because Garcia is afraid of a dead guy, I can't find out any more about."

"I am not unsealing the file," Garcia repeated stubbornly.

"It's okay, darlin'," Morgan said soothingly. "You don't have to."

"Did you tell Hotch?" JJ asked.

"I tried, but he was late for a conference call. I'll tell him as soon as he comes out."

"You could Google her," Reid suggested.

Prentiss snorted. "Her Bureau files are sealed and you think I'll find her on Google?"

“I got it,” Morgan offered. "What's her name?"

The agent looked unconvinced. "Constance. Constance Grail."

Morgan froze. "No. Oh, no."

"Who is she?" Prentiss demanded.

"Tony Ford's daughter," Reid said.

"No," Garcia said. "Ford's daughter had a short name, some kind of letter – Kay?"

"Zee," Morgan answered.

"Everyone calls her Zee," Reid supplied, "but her real name is Constance."

"How do you get Zee out of Constance?" Garcia asked.

"How do you get Grail out of Ford?" Prentiss asked.

"Ford worked undercover in Narcotics before he came to the BAU," JJ said. "Probably his family kept his wife’s maiden name, just to be on the safe side. And that's probably why her file's sealed, too."

"You're sure it was her?" Reid asked. "This tall, long hair, amazing eyes?"

Prentiss hesitated. "I don't know if I would have said 'amazing', but yeah, that's her."

"Trust me," Morgan said, "the eyes are amazing."

"Wait," Garcia said. "Gideon's off with Tony Ford's daughter, the day after … yesterday?"

Morgan stood up. "We need to tell Hotch. Right now."

  ***

Hotchner snapped his door open and strode to the railing. The team was clustered below, agitated. "Where's Gideon?"

"He's with Tony Ford's daughter," Morgan said. "Her mother didn't come home last night."

"What?" He trotted down the stairs. "What are you talking about?"

Prentiss took a deep breath. "When I came in this morning, Constance Grail …"

"Zee?"

"Yes. Zee. Was waiting in the lobby. I signed her in. She told Gideon that her mother was supposed to meet her for dinner last night and never showed up. He said he'd help her find her. He told me to tell you that he was taking the day off, that it was a personal matter and he'd call you later. Oh, and if a case came in to call him, but if he didn't answer you should go without him."

Hotchner glared back at her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried to. You blew me off."

"You should have blown back." He snapped his cell and hit a speed dial number. His jaw worked angrily side to side while he waited. The call went audibly to voice mail, and he snapped the phone shut. "Damn."

_Sweet innocent little Zee, with Gideon’s gun in her dainty hands, aimed at Gideon’s head. Him on his knees, his hands half-raised.  Jason Gideon could talk a gun out of the hands of a psychopath, but with Zee he wouldn’t even try. He’d accept his punishment, accept her judgment that he’d killed her father and deserved to die. He’d turn his calm brown eyes on her and say, "Do it." And she’d blink her big green eyes and pull the trigger…_

"Now what?" Morgan asked.

"He’d call if he needed help," Prentiss offered.

"He won't call," Hotch growled, "even if he can." He nodded in decision. "I'm going for a drive."

"I'm coming with you," Morgan said quickly.

Hotch shook his head. "No. There's no point in …"

"You're going," Morgan argued, "because you think there's some chance Gideon's in trouble, and you're smoked because he went alone. So you're going to go after him alone? I don't think so."

"Morgan …"

"I'm coming," Reid said.

"Yeah," Prentiss smirked, "the amazing eyes."

"Look," Hotch began again, "we don't have any reason to think …"

"A mother doesn't blow off her daughter on the anniversary of the day her father died," JJ said. "It's worth a look."

"Besides," Morgan said, "if we stay here, we've got to do all that paperwork" He gestured to a tall pile in his in-box.

Hotch took a long breath. They were exactly right, all of them. Maybe Gideon was in danger. Or maybe Miranda was genuinely missing. If that was the case, the list of possible explanations was short and grim. Either way, Jason needed his team. He wouldn’t like it, but he needed them. "Fine. I'm going for a drive. Nothing official, just to take a look. Anyone who wants to come along is welcome." He started out. The team followed. At the elevator he looked around. "Garcia?"

She shrugged. "You said anyone."

"Garcia."

"If I'm in my shrine and someone stops by and asks where the team went …" she said.

Hotch looked at her. She looked straight back. When the elevator opened, he gestured for her to go first.

Garcia grinned.

 ***

"I understand your position, Chief," Gideon said soothingly. "Honestly, I do. And if I didn't have personal knowledge of the situation …"

"Yeah, yeah," the chief grumbled. He was a whip-skinny, nervous man, badly shaven, hair askew, crumbs on his shirt and last night’s bourbon on his breath. A man who thought himself grossly overworked, who had barely finished his breakfast burrito before he was interrupted. "You understand my position, but you want me to make an exception just this once."

"Yes."

"Agent Gideon," the man said with elaborate patience, "do you have any idea how much my budget has been cut in the past three years? I can't put enough feet on the beat to catch people robbing stores at rush hour. And you want me to go looking for some broad who probably went home with her boyfriend and forgot to call?"

Gideon bit back on his temper. He threw a glance towards the window. Beyond, Constance waited beside the Jaguar. She was staring intently towards the woods. Birds, he thought. Maybe running water. "She's not 'some broad'," he said tightly. "And she would not forget to call her child if she were detained somewhere."

The chief scowled. "Her _child_ is a grown woman, Agent Gideon. And not one that I ever want in my station again, by the way."

"So I hear," Gideon said quietly. "But the fact remains, a citizen of your city is missing, under questionable circumstances …"

"Look, I'd like to help you. I would. But do you have any idea how many of these reports I get in a year? There must be a dozen times some family member comes in crying about some female didn't come home last night. And you know what happens, almost every time?"

"They come home."

"They come home. With some lame-ass excuse, or a massive hang-over or their cell phone cut off or whatever."

" _Most_ of the time," Gideon insisted. "What about the other times?"

The chief shrugged. "Seventy-two hours. If she doesn't turn up by Friday, we'll look for her."

"That's not good enough."

The chief stood up. "Look. I know you Quantico types are used to ordering everybody around, getting what you want. But this is my town, my cops, my budget. And unless you want to bring your own people in to search for this broad, we're doing it my way."

Gideon stared up at the man. Then he stood up himself, slowly, deliberately. He put both palms down on the desk and leaned across. "You had better hope that we find Miranda Grail safe. Because if we don't, I _will_ bring federal agents in here. Again. And you will not like the things they look for."

He turned and strode to the door.

"Hey, Agent Gideon," the chief called after him. Gideon turned. "Ten bucks says she's at home right now."

"If you're right, I'd gladly pay you." He stalked out.  

 ***

There was a dog barking somewhere beyond the small stand of trees.

_Zee was four years old. Her hair was short, just growing out after the surgeries, and she insisted that she would never let them cut it again. Her very stubbornness was testament to her astonishing recovery. She could easily have died._

_She stared through the fence at the barking Labrador, her little face uncharacteristically solemn, her bottom lip in a thoughtful pout. Fear of dogs, especially large dogs, was fairly common in children her age, but she seemed more perplexed than frightened._

_"Zee-Zee?" Gideon said quietly. He crouched next to her._

_She stared at the dog. "I don't know what he says, Uncle Jason."_

_"Well, the way his tail is wagging, I'd say he's saying he'd like you to pet him."_

_Zee looked at him. "Are you sure?"_

_"You should never pet a dog you don't know, Peanut," Gideon answered. "But I happen to know this one, and I know he's friendly. Do you want to come with me and pet him?"_

_She looked back at the dog and turned her head quizzically. "No," she said. Then she trotted off to the swings._

_*_

_Zee was six years old. Her hair was down past her shoulders. Same park, same dog, still barking. Same quizzical look on the child's face. "Zee? Do you want to pet him now?"_

_She shook her head seriously. "I still can't tell what he's saying."_

_"Well," Gideon said patiently, "look at his body language. His tail wagging, the way he bounces – he wants you to get closer. Probably wants to lick you."_

_Zee nodded. "Yes, but what is he_ saying _?"_

_"Oh." Gideon considered. "No one really knows what dogs are saying, Zee."_

_"No one?"_

_"No. Oh, there are some people who claim they do, but no. No one knows exactly. Dogs don’t have language the same way people do."_

_"But …" She paused, thinking. "Other things, I understand. If I listen long enough.  Daddy's records, I don't understand at first, but after a while I know what the words mean." She shook her head. "But not dogs. I never get dogs, no matter how long I listen."_

_Gideon blinked. There was something eerie about the girl's matter-of-fact statement. "You understand your dad's records?"_

_Zee nodded. "After a while. He has two kinds. They're different from each other. But they're the same, this kind or that kind. Like – like boys and girls. They're all different, but you know they're this one or that one. You know?"_

_Tony Ford, Gideon knew, was an opera fan. His favorite operas were Italian and German. Not surprising that the child of six could tell the two languages apart. But that wasn't all she'd said. His intuition tingled. "And you understand what they're saying?"_

_"They're sad. Almost all of them are sad. People killing each other, everybody angry. I won't let him play the red one anymore."_

_The intuition was now an undeniable flame. Very carefully, Gideon asked, "Why not?"_

_"The lady kills her children," she said bluntly. "Because she’d mad at their dad. I don't like it."_

_"Oh." He pursed his lips, considering. "Do you want to pet the dog?"_

_She considered. "No," she finally said, and ran off again._

_Gideon straightened and walked back to the picnic. "She okay?" Ford asked from the grill._

_"She's fine," Gideon said. "She won't let you play the red opera any more. What's that about?"_

_Tony stared at him blankly. "Oh," he said, surprised, "that. One of my albums, the jacket's red. She has a fit every time I get it out. No idea why."_

_"Which opera is it?"_

_"Medea."_

_Gideon nodded. "You leave the libretto lying around, where she could get a hold of it?"_

_Ford shook his head, puzzled. "I got it used. There wasn’t a libretto. What are you talking about?"_

_A hundred yards away, the girl had paused at the top of the slide and was staring intently at the barking black dog again. "Tony," Gideon said gently, "you need to get her back to her doctors."_

 

"Zee?" he asked softly.

She turned. "I still don't know what dogs are saying," she said sadly.

"I know, Peanut."

"He won't help, will he?"

"Not until Friday."

Constance folded her arms over her chest. "I'll be dead from stress by then."

Gideon nodded. "You and me both. Let's go to the house."

 ***

The owner's manual of the standard fleet Suburban said that it seated nine. It did not claim that it seated nine comfortably. In actuality, six was fairly crowded. Reid clambered good-naturedly into the far back seat. JJ joined him. "Is it far?" she asked.

"Bensonville?" Reid asked. "No. Fifteen point four miles."

The truck was quiet. Usually there'd be chatter. "Amazing eyes, huh?" JJ teased quietly.

Reid nodded absently. "They are. Huge. Green." He glanced at her. "Kinda like yours, but green and …" He stopped, blushing. "And she's got this way of …" He stopped again. "She’s a hyper polyglot," he pronounced firmly.

Garcia twisted around in the seat in front of them. "A hyper what?"

"A hyper polyglot," Reid repeated. "She speaks multiple languages. Hyper refers to more than three or four."

"How many does she speak?" Prentiss asked.

"Twelve, I heard."

"That's probably conservative," Hotch said from the driver's seat. "Reid, try to call Gideon. Maybe he'll answer you."

JJ watched him dial, then turned towards the front. "Do you really think Gideon's in danger?"

Hotch shook his head. "I doubt it. But with the stressor of the anniversary, I can't rule it out. Zee's … been through a lot."

"Does she hold Gideon responsible for her father's death?" Prentiss asked.

"No," Reid answered. "She never did. Even at his funeral, she was concerned about Gideon." He closed his phone. "He's not answering."

"So what are we thinking, then?" Morgan asked. "That she snapped on the anniversary and … what?"

Hotch shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know that there's anything more to this than Prentiss saw. There probably isn't." He paused. "Zee doesn't hold Gideon responsible for Ford's death, but Gideon does. And that makes him very vulnerable to her, emotionally if not physically. I just … I need to be there. The rest of you really don't."

JJ leaned forward. "Okay, just pull over here and we'll walk back to the office."

Hotchner looked at her in the rearview mirror and smirked. "I didn't mean it that way. I just meant … if Miranda's not really missing, if it's just some misunderstanding …"

"But what if she _is_ really missing?" Morgan asked. "Then you do need us, all of us, right away."

Reid said, "I can't see the mother not showing up yesterday unless something serious had happened."

"No," Hotch agreed. "Miranda would be there if she could be." He considered for a long moment as he steered the truck onto the freeway. "You all need to know, if you don't already, Gideon and Zee are very close. So whatever's going on, give him some room."

"Or he will totally rip your head off and throw it down the street," Garcia interpreted.

"Pretty much," Hotch nodded.

 ***

He hadn't been to the house in years.

He'd meant to keep in touch with them, to check up on them. And he had, to some extent. He'd gone to New York when Zee got her undergraduate degree, had dinner with them a couple times. But he hadn't been to the house. It was unreal, like the car had been. The man was gone. His house and his car remained, as if he had only gone to run an errand, as if he'd come back in an hour or so and pick up where he'd left off.

But Tony Ford was never coming back. Because of a choice Gideon had made.

"I shouldn't have called you," Zee said sadly.

Gideon looked up sharply. "Why?"

"Because it hurts you. To be here." There were tears in her eyes. "I should have known … I should have thought …"

"It would break my heart if you hadn't come to me. You're my girl now, remember?"

She blinked the tears back. "I remember."

 

_The hospital lights were harsh and Zee's skin was radiant pale under them. She was ten, curled up like a kitten on the hard blue vinyl of the waiting room bench, her head on Gideon's shoulder. Miranda had gone for coffee._

_Tony Ford was in surgery, and no one was giving odds that he'd survive. He’d been shot three times._

_"Che cosa se muore?" Zee asked quietly._

_Gideon looked down at her. "In English, Zee," he said quietly._

_She flinched. Her eyes grew frightened, and her bottom lip trembled. Her concern about her father was temporarily overridden by her terror that she was losing_ – _had lost_ – _control of her language again. "Breathe, Peanut," Gideon reminded her. "Just breathe."_

_Zee tried to take a deep breath, but it was interrupted by a half-sob. She closed her eyes and tried again. Better. Another. One slow breath after another, exactly as Gideon had taught her, until the panic went away. When she opened her eyes she was angry and embarrassed, but she was not terrified._

_"Good girl," Gideon said warmly. "What was your question?"_

_"What will happen if he dies?"_

_Gideon considered. "His spirit will go to a better place. A place without pain, without criminals."_

_"He'd hate that," the girl answered. "No one to chase after." She shifted her feet under her. "Do you know who Karl Wallenda is?"_

_"I do," Gideon said. "Why?"_

_"Dad has this saying he likes. 'Being on the tightrope is living.'"_

_"'Everything else is waiting,'" Gideon finished. He considered. "Do you know what that means?"_

_"It means he loves what he does," the child answered confidently. "And if he dies while he’s doing it …" Her voice faltered. She lifted her head to look around. When she was sure they were alone, she continued. "But what will happen to_ me _?" she asked._

_Startled, Jason kissed her on the top of her head, stalling for time because he wasn’t sure his voice would be steady. Zee knew the question sounded selfish, and she was ashamed of that; she’d been sure they were alone before she asked. But it was a valid question, too, especially for a child. It took his breath away was that she always trusted him with such questions. His own child barely spoke to him, much less trusted him with the critical questions of his heart. But Zee trusted him absolutely._

_Perhaps, Gideon thought, there was another side to that. Zee and her father were as close as they could be, and yet she came to Jason with her questions. Perhaps there were questions you simply couldn’t ask your own father._

_He sighed. "Well, Peanut, if he dies, I guess you’ll just be my girl."_

_She considered this for a long, long moment. Then she nodded. "Okay."_

_"Okay."_

 

Tony Ford had lived, that day. It was only years later that he’d run into a building to free a hostage, after his friend had assured him it was safe …

_First the living_ , Gideon reminded himself. He took her hand again and they went inside.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Many things in the house had changed. Many things hadn't. Gideon stood in the center of the kitchen with his hands on his hips, looking around. Stalling. He had no idea where to start. Constance watched him hopefully, as if he would say, 'Ah-ha!' and throw open the closet door to reveal her mother. _I would if I could, Peanut_ , he thought. "Is there coffee?"

"I can make some."

He nodded. It gave her something to do, and him time to think.

He needed his team. He needed someone to send to the airport, to talk to workers and look at the surveillance tapes. He needed someone to check on Constance's alibi at the restaurant. He suspected her only as a formality, but he wanted that doubt absolutely closed off. He needed a list of other possible suspects. Needed to search the house. Needed someone to call all the hospitals and local police again. And cab companies. Needed his resources. Needed his team.

But he couldn't justify calling them out, even in his own mind. An able-bodied adult, missing less than twenty-four hours, nothing to indicate foul play – except that she'd missed dinner with her daughter on the anniversary of her husband's death.

Given who Zee was, and how her father had died, it was possible the Director would give them the go-ahead to investigate. But the first thing he'd do after that would be to pull Gideon himself off the case.

He shook his head. Max Ryan was right, he wasn't used to working alone any more. He needed to think, to prioritize. First the house. Then the airport. Find something for Zee to do, somewhere for her to be, someone to stay with her. Maybe call Garcia on the quiet, have her run phone records.

The doorbell rang.

Constance dropped the coffee filter, scattering grounds across the kitchen floor, and raced for the door.

"Zee, wait!" Gideon ordered. He chased after her, knowing she wouldn't stop, knowing he wouldn't catch her before she threw that door open, and that the very first thing he should have done was lay down ground rules for her, but he hadn't and she was running straight into whatever waited behind that door.

***

The instant he rang the doorbell, Aaron Hotchner knew he'd made a mistake. He'd rung this bell before, just like this, three years and a day before. He heard the running footsteps, and the heavier ones, Gideon's voice shouting, and he knew, he knew, she was going to open that door and take one look at him …

She opened the door. Her pupils went visibly wide.

"Zee, we don't know anything …" he said swiftly.

Then he caught her as she crumpled towards him.

***

"Do you want me to call an ambulance?" Morgan asked, watching as Hotch lowered the girl onto the couch.

"Give it a minute," Gideon said, shouldering Hotch out of the way. "Somebody get me an ice pack." He felt her forehead and her neck. Her skin was dead white, but her breathing was regular and her eyelids were already fluttering. "What did you do to my girl, Hotch?"

"I’m sorry," Hotch said sincerely. "I should have thought it through. I just …"

"We thought you might be in danger," Reid said bluntly, returning from the kitchen. He handed Gideon a bag of frozen vegetables.

"Peas," Prentiss observed quietly. "Interesting choice."

Reid flushed. "That’s all there was."

"Don’t hate me, Peanut," Gideon said to the girl. He lifted her head and pressed the icy package to the back of her neck.

Constance regained consciousness with an audible ‘whoosh’. Her eyes snapped open and she jerked upward. "Quit it!"

"Shh, shh," Gideon soothed.

Hotch leaned over the back of the couch. "I’m sorry," he repeated sincerely. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

Constance blinked up at him. Then she twined her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to hug him. "Your job must suck."

"Sometimes," he admitted.

She released him and lay back. "You don’t know where she is?"

"No. We came to help find her."

The girl blinked up at him. Then she looked around slowly, past Gideon, and noticed the rest of them for the first time. "Oh. Hello." And then, "Where’s Spencer?"

"I’m here," he said, coming out of the kitchen again. He carried a tall glass of orange juice, with a straw. "You should drink this."

"Why?"

"Ah … because you’re in shock."

She frowned, confused. Then she looked to Gideon for confirmation. He nodded. She let him help her sit up, drew her feet up onto the couch and hugged her knees.

Gideon took the glass and held it for her. With his other hand, he settled the frozen peas on the back of her neck again. He looked to Hotchner. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you," Hotch said, "we came to help."

"No." Gideon shook his head. "This is a personal matter. I can't involve the team."

"Gideon, if another case comes in, we’ll go on it. You’re on your own. But right now we’ve got nothing but paperwork. And we’re not going to sit around doing paperwork while Miranda Grail is missing. For whatever reason."

"Aaron, I can't ask you to do this."

"You didn't ask us. And we're not officially here. This is just a little … field trip," Hotch answered. "A training exercise."

Gideon raised an unconvinced eyebrow. "A training exercise?"

"Team building?"

"Let’s just hope we don’t have to justify it." Gideon looked at each of them. "Garcia?"

She shrugged self-consciously. "It's not an official case or anything. I thought I could, um, gain some valuable insights. You know. Observe in the field so I can be more helpful from the office."

"Sure." Gideon glanced at Hotch, who shrugged. "I need you at a computer."

"We have a computer," Constance offered.

"Not like hers," Morgan assured her.

"Bet me."

Gideon studied the girl again, then gave her the glass, removed the frozen peas and dropped them on the coffee table. He stood up, balanced his weight over his feet, clasped his hands in front of him. "I don't think you should be here," he announced briskly. "Any of you."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Morgan said, settling into a chair. "So where are we?"

"Miranda Grail is missing," Hotch said. "Since when, and from where?"

The older agent almost smiled. "Thank you," he said warmly. Then he shifted into his business voice. "She arrived last night on a flight from London. She called from baggage claim, was going to meet Zee at Bremmers. She never got there."

"Pretty narrow time window," Prentiss said.

"Pretty close distance, too," Morgan agreed. "That's what, fifteen miles?"

"Thirteen point two," Reid clarified.

"And all main road."

"Do you have a recent picture of your mother?" Hotch asked.

"Yes." Constance started to her feet, then paled and sat back down and simply pointed. "In there."  

Reid went the direction she’d pointed, through an archway into the study. There was a huge desk, complete with computer, and two full walls of bookshelves. The other two walls were covered with pictures, of all shapes and sizes, rather haphazardly mounted. "The graduation one, behind you," Constance said.

He turned and found it, at eye-level on the bookshelf, Constance and a dark-haired, small-featured woman. He carried it back to the living room and slipped it out of the frame.  

Hotch sat down on the couch next to the young woman. "Zee? Can you tell us what happened? From the top?"

She nodded, then paused for a moment before she spoke, composing herself. "She was supposed to come home from London yesterday morning," she began.

She told the story to the team almost exactly as she'd told it to Gideon, fairly calmly, fairly briskly. 

"What time did you get to the restaurant?" Prentiss asked.

"Seven-thirty-ish."

"What time did you come home?"

Constance thought about it. "Midnight. Quarter after."

"You get any sleep?" Gideon asked.

"No. I made more phone calls. And, um, took a shower."

"You thought your mom might call," Morgan asked, surprised, "so you jumped in the shower?"

Constance looked at her feet.

"Magical thinking," Reid supplied. "The minute you get in the shower, the phone rings."

The girl looked at him and nodded, still embarrassed. "I know it's stupid. I couldn't think of anything else to do." She shrugged. "And then as soon as it got light, I went out again, drove to the airport and the restaurant and … ended up at Quantico."

"Nobody's called the house?" Hotch asked. "No hang-up calls, nothing like that?"

Constance shook her head.

"It was raining last night," Reid observed. "Would she have gotten a ride with someone?"

"Maybe shared a cab?" Prentiss wondered.

"Not with a stranger," Gideon said.

"No," Constance said, "but … she knows a lot of people."

"We'll need a list."

"Of everybody she knows?" Constance's eyes got wide. "You're kidding, right?"

"We can narrow it down," Gideon said. "Start with the most likely ones."

The girl stared at him, and her eyes got wider still. "The most likely … of the people my mother knows, trusts enough to get in a car with, the most likely to have …" She put her feet on the floor and her head on her knees.

Hotch picked up the peas and put them on the back of her neck again.  

"What kind of lawyer is she?" Prentiss asked. "Maybe a disgruntled client, a …"

Hotch shook his head. "Miranda's in international law. She works with NGO's, groups like Doctors Without Borders. She helps them obtain visas, Customs clearances, liability insurance. Things like that."

"Not likely to ruffle any feathers."

"Possible," Hotch conceded, "but not likely."

"Airport," Morgan said quietly. "Surveillance tapes, baggage claim personnel."

"They lost her bag, with her laptop," Gideon said. "She filed a claim for it. They'll have records."

"And the restaurant," Prentiss added.

Hotch handed the Suburban keys to Morgan. "Keep in touch."

"Garcia," Gideon said, "start with Miranda's cell phone. And then find out who else was on that flight. I'll get Zee started on a list, we'll start running backgrounds." He turned. "JJ, hospitals and local police departments first, fifty-mile radius, then cab companies, then local news."

"I called them," Constance said, without lifting her head.

"It won't hurt to call them again," Hotch answered. "They may give us more information than they'd give you."

"There's a list in the kitchen," the girl offered, sitting up. "On the table."

"Thank you."

Hotch stood up. "Reid and I will go through the house, see if there's anything disturbed."

"She's been gone for three weeks. I don't see …" Constance stopped. "I'm sorry. Go ahead, look wherever you want."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Just because you're Tony's kid, you don't have to be the perfect witness, okay?"

She put her hand over his and squeezed. "I'm sorry I fainted at you. But next time, do you think you could call first?"

"I'll make a point of it."

 ***

"Do women routinely faint at the sight of Hotchner?" Prentiss asked on the way to the airport.

Morgan shook his head. "After Boston, I came with Hotch to the house to tell them. Miranda was at the grocery store, Zee was home alone. Spring break. The minute she opened the door, the minute she saw us …" He paused. "The thing was, as soon as she understood that Tony was dead, she asked about Gideon. And Miranda, when she got home, she did the same thing. Tony's gone, how can we help Gideon?"

"They didn't blame him? Really?"

"No." He started to say something more, then stopped himself. "No."

Prentiss nodded. "You don't think she did it."

"Zee? No. We'll stop at the restaurant, check out her story, but no." He frowned at the road. "I almost wish she had. At least then we've had a good chance of solving it. If Miranda got snatched on her way out of the airport …."

After a moment, Prentiss said, "Can I ask you something without getting my head bit off?"

"Depends on what you ask me." Morgan glanced at her. "Go ahead."

"Gideon and the girl are obviously very close. If we can't get the mother back …"

Morgan shook his head firmly. "Don't even think about it. Just don't even think about it."

 ***

Garcia sat down and cracked her knuckles before she reached for the keyboard. It was already powered on and woke sluggishly at her touch. The internet was open, on the yellow pages, local hospital listings.

She closed the screen and checked the system information. She didn't expect much, from a home computer, but the system was loaded. Absolutely top-of-the-line, current, and with processing power that no home owner needed or probably ever used. She frowned, wondering exactly why they needed a big box in their den, but she didn't ask. Instead, she started accessing her databases.

Reid stood behind her, silent. "What's on your mind, sweet cheeks?" she asked without looking away from her screen.

"This wall," Reid answered slowly.

Garcia looked up. The wall above the desk was covered with pictures and diplomas and other stuff in frames. One wedding group, several posed studio portraits of Zee at various ages, one of the girl with her parents. The rest were less formal, snapshots. Tony Ford in front of his Jaguar. Zee and a handful of girls, all making faces. Miranda shaking hands with a senator. Zee and Miranda with their faces covered with chocolate. Zee, maybe eight, standing between Gideon and Ford, holding up a fish as big as she was. In the middle, just above the computer, was a triangular wooden box with a glass front. Inside was a folded American flag. "From his coffin," she said quietly.

"I know," Reid said. "But this whole wall. Compared to that one." He pointed to the other wall. It had the same chaos of pictures, but there was a definite difference. The far wall's photos were hung haphazardly, at different levels, different spacing. Clearly the work of someone who hung photos as they got them, wherever they'd fit. The wall above the desk had orderly rows, carefully measured. "This wall's been redone."

"My father's ghost," Constance supplied.

They turned. She was leaning against the doorframe, still pale but on her feet.

"Told you there was a ghost," Garcia said under her breath.

"His ghost?" Reid asked skeptically.

"Not really," Constance assured him. "It's a joke. Not a good one." She gestured to the flag. "Last fall Mom finally got a case for that and hung it up. Every time I worked at this computer I smelled smoke. I thought I was imaging it. Every time Mom worked in here she smelled it, but she didn't say anything either. Didn't want to scare me. And then over Christmas we were both in here and smoke started coming out of the wall behind the flag."

"Holy crap," Garcia said.

Reid shook his head. "She nailed it to an electrical conduit."

Constance nodded. "Charred the whole inside of the wall. So first we had the fire department, and then we had insurance guys and electricians and carpenters and drywall guys and painters. It made for an interesting holiday. After they were all done, the electrician came back out and hung all the pictures for her. No charge. So she wouldn't do it again."

"That was nice of him," Garcia said.

"Well, he wants us to rewire the whole house. And we probably should. But even if Mom does, I don't think she'll hire Old Smokey."

"Your electrician's name is Smokey?" Reid asked.

"That's just what we called him. He was a really nice guy, but he was a chain smoker.  Every twenty minutes, like clockwork, he went out on the porch and smoked two cigarettes, all the way down to the filter. Mom gave him a coffee can to put the butts in, and in two days it was full."

"I bet he smelled lovely," Garcia commented, watching her downloads fly in.

"He smelled like the coffee can full of butts. His clothes just reeked. The house reeked, after he left. We had candles all over the place – it's a wonder we didn't set it on fire again. Bleegh."

Reid rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Do you have the names of contractors?"

Constance looked at him, surprised. "There's a folder here somewhere. I can find it."

"Do it. We'll start with them."

"We," Garcia snorted, "by which he means me."

"Exactly. And see if you can get the firefighters, too."

The girl started rummaging through a file drawer. "You really think … never mind. I know, looking at all the possibilities." She frowned. "The insurance adjuster asked my mom for a date."

"Did she go?"

"No."

Reid shrugged. "Worth a look, anyhow."

"I wish I had another computer," Garcia sighed.

"You can use my laptop," Constance offered. "It's upstairs."

"Get it."

"I'll get it," Reid said quickly. The girl still looked pale to him; stairs were probably not the best choice. "You find the construction file."

"Okay. Second door on the right."

"Be right back."

 ***

"Jason?"

Gideon turned. It was raining again, but the porch roof protected him.

"You all right?" Hotch asked.

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are."

"I haven't been in this house since Tony died." Gideon shook his head. "I meant to look after them, I meant to … I just couldn't."

"You've been there for them," Hotch said.

Gideon shook his head. " _You_ were the one Zee called when she got arrested."

"I was hoping you wouldn't find out about that," Hotch admitted. "And even if you'd been – available – she'd have been too embarrassed to call you."

"I took her father from her," Gideon said morosely. "And then I wasn't there when she needed him."

"Jason," Hotchner said firmly, "you're here _now_. Now is when she needs you. And you were the first person she came to."

"After she spent the night alone and terrified."

Hotch shook his head. "I need to know you're going to get through this, Jason."

 

_Jason Gideon was catatonic. He lay unmoving in his hospital bed, not eating, not speaking. Not complaining when they changed the bandages on his burned hands. He didn't seem to register even physical pain. Certainly Hotchner's voice was not reaching him. "I need to know you're going to get through this, Jason."_

_The man wouldn't even look at him._

_"They put me in charge of the BAU," Hotch went on. "Temporarily, until you come back. Jason, I'm … I'm in over my head. I'm not sure I can do it. Without you, without Ford …" He stopped. Gideon had enough to deal with without his subordinate's insecurities. "I'll find a way, I'll do it … but I don't want your job, Jason. I want you to get better, to come back."_

_The man's eyes shifted to him, flat and dead, and then moved away again. Not the head, just the eyes._

_Hotch shifted his feet. "Ford's funeral was today. We taped it, if you want to see it some time. Later." No response. He fingered the paper in his pocket. It was a risk, a big one. Might make things worse. Except how could things be any worse? "Zee sent you a note."_

_The brown eyes snapped at him. Gideon's breathing grew faster. Hotch took out the note, folded in half. "Do you want me to read it to you?"_

_Gideon barely, barely moved his head. No._  
  


_Hotchner left it folded on the tray table in front of him. The eyes left him, raked over the note. "She doesn't blame you, Jason," he went on. "She's worried about you. Miranda is, too. They'd like to see you."_

_Gideon closed his eyes. No._

_"All right. When you're ready. I'm going, but if you need anything, anything at all …" He went to the doorway._

_Gideon stared fixedly at the little square of paper. He reached for it, slowly, slowly. The bandages on his hands were in the way, and his fingers shook violently, but the note was only folded in half; it was easy to open._

_Hotch watched him. He knew what the note said; he'd read it, of course, before he'd brought it to his wounded friend. Zee'd torn the page from Reid's notebook and scrawled it at her father's gravesite. Eight simple words.  'Do I still get to be your girl?'_

_Jason Gideon's eyes filled with tears. They rolled down his cheeks unheeded, unchecked. He folded the tiny scrap of paper and gripped it like a lifeline. The tears came harder, faster._

_"Jason?" Hotch said, still from the door._

_Gideon looked up at him, and for the first time in days actually saw him. "You'll do fine," he said shakily. "With the team. You'll do fine."_

_Hotchner's own eyes were damp. He had needed that affirmation desperately. "I can stay," he began._

_Gideon shook his head, wiped roughly at his tears. "Go. I need to … I need to …" He gestured with the note. "Go."_

_He needed to cry his eyes out, Hotch interpreted. He needed to cry and scream and howl with rage.  All the emotions that he had buried since the explosion needed to come out, and Jason Gideon was a man who felt things very intensely. The grieving would be ugly and hard, and he didn't want Hotchner – or anyone else – seeing it._

_But the grieving was the first step towards healing. Eight simple words from a heartbroken girl at her father's grave had cracked Gideon's shell of emotional self-protection. For the first time, Hotch let himself hope they would get Gideon back._

 

Gideon looked at him for a long moment. "I have to get through it," he said simply. "My girl needs me."

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Charlemagne once said, "To have another language is to possess a second soul."_  


_***_

Reid entered the bedroom slowly, feeling like an intruder. It was ridiculous, of course. He and Hotch were going to search every inch of the house in a few minutes, this bedroom included. The fact that he held some personal attraction for the young woman really made no difference.

It was not as if she reciprocated.

The spacious bedroom had a curiously temporary feel to it, rather like a hotel room. The double bed was rumpled, the covers roughly pulled into place, the pillows mashed to one side. Beside the bed, a white noise machine hummed quietly, forgotten. There were knick-knacks and toiletries, the sort of thing he'd expect in a young woman's room, but they had the look of things left behind. She lived here, but she also lived at college, and the things she used every day traveled with her in between.

There was an entire wall of bookshelves, crammed with books. It triggered an odd response in his brain, a warming that he felt in his chest. He walked towards the shelves. Three hours, he thought, maybe a little more, and he could read everything there, know everything she'd read and deemed worth keeping. Know so much more about her. He paused, his hand raised towards a book. He didn't have time, and he didn't have the right.

Besides, the title of the book he was reaching for wasn't in English.

He frowned, tilted his head. On the shelf before him, none of the titles was in English. The next shelf was the same – but from the shape of the letters, another language entirely. He stepped back, scanning. Then he whistled.

Twelve languages was, indeed, a conservative estimate.

He was letting himself be distracted. He turned reluctantly, resolutely, from the books.

There was a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed, a soft suitcase open on it, clothes spilling out. On the desk was her laptop, closed, and three books, stacked, with library stickers on the spines. She had planned to study.

There was a long, low dresser with a wide mirror over it. Pictures and keepsakes were tucked all along the mirror's frame. This family loved pictures, he thought, but wasn’t really big on photo albums. A picture of Constance with three other women her age. Another of Gideon and Ford. One of a very young girl, probably Constance, surrounded by nurses, all grinning. Two graduation tassels. A letter of acceptance to a graduate program, history, with an enthusiastic hand-written addendum from the dean. A picture of nothing but three shapely bare butts. An elegantly hand-printed sign which read, 'Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.'  

A tiny folded paper crane.

Reid stared at it, surprised. He would never have expected that she'd still have it. After all these years. Such a silly little thing. Not even a very good crane, just folded from notebook paper, the blue lines visible. Just a silly … and the hormone rush, familiar and undeniable. 

_"Wow," Morgan said, very softly, "she's filling out nice."_

_Reid turned to see what his new co-worker was looking at. There was a girl with very long hair, warm brown, the color of hair that got red highlights in the summer and lost them in the winter; she wore two slender braids down each side of her face, with the rest was caught back in thick ponytail. Then she turned and he saw her face –_

_– sweat appeared in a light coat on his palms, his armpits, the back of his neck, his thighs; his stomach lurched and jumped almost painfully; his heart rate increased dramatically; his pupils dilated; his saliva increased so suddenly that he had to swallow –_

_Dopamine, he identified at once. The hormone of attraction. Not uncommon, and certainly not in a man of his age. Except that it had never hit him so hard before, and so suddenly. Except that he'd never in his life been sexually attracted to a girl who looked to be no more than twelve years old._

_The hormone waned and he felt sick._

_And then she turned again, lifted her hand, and he realized she was not twelve. She had breasts and hips, not large but definitely defined. She was in her late teens, probably. It was only her face that looked so young. Her tiny mouth, her slender chin, her huge eyes._

_Besides, Morgan liked women, not children. He was ogling her, discretely, giving tacit permission for Reid to do the same._

_At the same time, the fact that she was laughing on Jason Gideon's arm warned Reid to be_ very _discrete._

_She was thirty feet away, she had not even noticed him, and she was giving him emotional whiplash. "Who is that?" he managed to say._

_Morgan glanced at him. ''Tony Ford's little girl. Jail bait. Don't even think about it."_

_Reid nodded as the older agent moved away. Think about it, no. Feel it in every fiber of his body, too late, already done._

_Tony Ford had said, the first day Reid was in the office, that he'd spent the weekend moving his 'little girl' to college. So maybe she was eighteen …_

_No. Some kind of early entry program. She was under eighteen._

_But she wasn't twelve, either._

_She was … she was …_

_Emergent._

_He smiled to himself at his own idiocy. No one had used that word in a hundred years. No one except his own mother, of course. It was an old term, used to describe a girl on the threshold of womanhood. And though it referred technically to a girl of sexual maturity who was not yet sexually active, there was a deeper, more literary meaning to it. Regardless of the actual status of her virginity, this girl was right there. Another week, a month, a season at most, and she would not be a girl anymore. She was like a wild rose bud, absolutely full, her outer leaves exposed, but needing one more day in the sun before those petals began to unfurl, before she opened into full blossom. And whether they knew it or not, the drone bees, the young agents who hovered cautiously around her, all sensed that, all lingered in the hopes of being the one to taste the very first, sweetest nectar of her blooming._

_There Reid's conscious mind caught him, aware of the embarrassing stirring his thoughts were causing below his belt. Morgan was right. Let Tony Ford get one hint that Reid was contemplating the pollination of his daughter, and he'd break him like a twig._

_And possibly, from their body language, Gideon would have the same response. There was something both proprietary and protective about his posture with the girl._

_Deliberately, Reid turned away from the most beautiful girl in the room._

_He glanced at his watch. Two hours, he'd promised Gideon. He had twenty more minutes to go. He moved to a table at the back of the room, away from the crowd and near the side exit. Twenty more minutes and he would slip out, go home to his silent and empty apartment. It was better to be alone by himself than alone in this room full of strangers._

_He sat down and watched them, feeling obvious and exposed. He would have felt the same in the center of the crowd. He hated parties. Hated being the new kid here. The freak. Gideon had said he had to come, had to meet people. He’d come, but he hated it._

_His hands were empty. He wished he'd thought to get a beverage before he'd sat down; then he could toy with the cup. But the table was on the far side of the room, an impossible distance. He'd rather have empty hands than move through that too-polite throng again._

_He got out his pocket notepad, tore out a sheet of paper, and began to fold it into a paper monkey. The paper was really too small for origami, and he had to concentrate on it. But it turned out okay. He got another sheet and started to fold a crane._

_"Ferez-vous un pour moi?"_

_Reid snapped his head up, and looked directly into the biggest, greenest eyes he had ever seen. The girl, the one he should not think about, and the dopamine rush this time was bigger than before. He said, with his usual eloquence, "Huh?"_

_She hesitated, frowning. "That wasn't in English, was it?"_

_"I, uh, I don't think so." He spoke French, but her words had been both fast and unexpected. He didn't have any idea what she'd said._

_"I'm sorry." She blushed furiously. "I do that sometimes. When I'm nervous."_

_"Why are you nervous?" Reid blurted._

_She bit her lip, looking right into his eyes, and then she looked away, gestured to the party in general. "I hate these things. I always feel like … like somebody's going to hand me a box of crayons and a placemat to color."_

_Reid chuckled. "I know that feeling, believe me." They looked at each other, uneasily silent. "What did you say, before?"_

_"I don't remember." She giggled. "Oh. Can you make me one?"_

_"One …" He glanced at his hands, and was startled to find the crane still there. "Oh. You can have this one." He held it out to her._

_"No. I want to watch you."_

_The dopamine cascaded through his brain again. She hadn't meant it as innuendo, he was sure, but it rushed blood to all the wrong places anyhow. He was glad he was sitting down. Sitting – then his manners, late as always, caught up with him. "I, uh, do you want to, um, sit down?"_

_She smiled, as embarrassed as he was, and sat. And then said, "I'm sorry. I'm Zee." She stuck her hand out to him._

_Reid hesitated, then took it quickly, gave it a quick squeeze, and released it.  "I'm, uh, I'm … Zee?"_

_The woman-girl laughed, and her eyes sparkled. "No, I'm Zee. You're Dr. Reid."_

_"Oh. Yeah, I know, I … Spencer. You can call me Spencer."_

_This seemed to surprise her. "Are you sure?"_

_"Yes. Yes." His hands were awkward and empty. He brought out his notebook again. "Do you, uh, do you want me to teach you?" That sounded like innuendo, too._

_"Yes, please."_

_He gave her her own piece of paper, showed her how to fold it and tear off one edge so she started with a perfect square. "It would be easier with bigger paper," he apologized._

_"Well, wait a minute and someone will bring me a placemat," she joked._

_Reid continued with the folding, slowly, letting her see and copy every step. "It's an unusual name. Zee. Is it short for … Zelda?"_

_"No. It's short for Constance."_

_"Umm." Reid studied her. Her eyes were really not that enormous, he decided, though they were probably a quarter bigger than average for the Caucasian population. The contrast between her big eyes and her tiny mouth was what made them appear huge.  She had her father's eyes, but clearly her mother's facial features. Not classically beautiful, but absolutely striking. "Constance?" he ventured._

_"The short version? My parents fought for months over what to name me. My father wanted to name me the Germanic, Constanze."_

_"For Constanze Webel, Mozart's wife," Reid guessed._

_The girl nodded. "My mother wanted the Anglicized Constance. For the literary one."_

_"Set adrift in a boat with no sail and no oar," Reid provided._

_She blinked. "Damn. Nobody knows that."_

_He shifted. "My mother was a professor of English literature. Fifteenth century."_

_"Was?"_

_Reid flushed. He hadn't meant to bring her up, certainly didn't want to talk about her. "She, uh, doesn't teach anymore."_

_Constance studied him. Then she nodded, as if she understood. "After I was born, my father went home and my mother filled out my birth certificate while he was gone. So I became Constance with a C. But when he found out, he immediately started telling everybody he was going to change it to Constanze with a Z. So for a while I was Withazee, and by the time they took me home from the hospital, of course, I had become just Zee."_

_Reid nodded. "You look like Constance to me."_

_To his surprise, the woman blushed. "Adrift without a sail or oar?"_

_"No, I didn't mean like that, I just meant …it's just, it's a pretty name, I just …"_

_"You can call me Constance, if you want," she said quietly, looking away. "Nobody else does, but it sounds good when you say it."_

_The rush he felt this time was different from dopamine. It was something more. Something about having a real conversation with a real woman. An attractive woman, who seemed to think he had something interesting to say._

_"Here," he said, touching her fingers over the paper, "now you turn it kinda inside out, like that."_

_"My wings aren't even."_

_"It takes some practice."_

_Constance bent her crane's head down and examined the paper bird critically. "Lots of practice." She put hers aside and took his instead. "You don’t like parties," she observed._

_"No," Reid admitted immediately. "I never have. Gideon said I had to come."_

_She nodded. "He wants you to meet everybody."_

_"I feel like a … like a blue ribbon zucchini at the fair." He got out his notebook and tore out another sheet of paper. He offered one silently to Constance, but she waved him off, content to watch him. The head rush all over again._

_She glanced over to where Gideon was speaking with a group of agents, telling some story with his hands and arms wide. "He's been after you for more than a year, you know."_

_"He has?"_

_"He's been royally pissed that the Director wouldn't let him recruit you until you turned twenty-one."_

_Reid frowned. "How do you know that?"_

_"I am the designated Snack Wench at the bi-weekly poker game," she reported. "I hear many things."_

_"Gideon plays poker?" Reid wasn't sure why that was a surprise. He barely knew his new boss and potential mentor, but somehow poker hadn't entered his thought process._

_"Badly."_

_"But he's a profiler."_

_"He spends all his time profiling the other players and none watching his own cards. He sucks at poker. But never play chess with him. He'll kick your ass."_

_Reid folded the neck of a tiny giraffe. "I'm actually pretty good at chess."_

_"I don't care if you're Anatoly Karpov. He'll still kick your ass." She watched his hands for a moment. "Anyhow, he's tickled pink he finally got you."_

_The words tickled pink in reference to Gideon refused to mesh in Reid's already befuddled mind. He frowned deeply. The giraffe's front legs refused to fold. "Big giant brain to show off," he muttered._

_"No," Constance answered. "I mean, yes, but no. He wants you because he thinks you're smart."_

_The leg tore off in his hand, and Reid tossed the mangled giraffe away. "I have an IQ of 187," he said morosely._

_"Intelligence is just frosting. He wants you because you're_ smart _. Like he is."_

_Reid stared at her. He knew what she was saying. But it was more surprising than finding out Gideon couldn't play poker. "Really?"_

_"Really."_

_"I … I …wow."_

_Constance smiled warmly, conspiratorially. "The Snack Wench knows all and tells all."_

_"I thought you were at college."_

_"I am," she answered. "So that's probably your last tip."_

_"How do you like it? College?" He flinched, realizing he'd asked one of the classic 'adult' questions. It wasn't quite as bad as offering her a box of crayons, but it was close._

_Constance sighed. "I love my house. I love the school. I hate my major."_

_"Change it," Reid said logically._

_"I can’t."_

_"Of course you can."_

_"No, I can't. They let me into the program because I'm a pseudo-savant hyperpolyglot. They're not going to let me change majors."_

_"A … what?"_

_She flushed. "A hyper–"_

_"I know what a hyperpolyglot is," Reid interrupted. "It means you're fluent in an unusually high number of languages. It was the pseudo-savant I was questioning."_

_"Oh." Constance sat back. "Well, I'm not a true savant because one, I wasn't born one, I fell on my head as a child, and two, I have a few too many IQ points to be a savant."_

_"A few?"_

_"Six or eight."_

_"I think way more than that," Reid argued. "Just in our conversation you've displayed …" He stopped himself. "Oh. That was a joke."_

_"Not a very good one."_

_"No, it was fine, I just don't, uh, get humor. Always. Usually. So – you're a genius polyglot …"_

_"I'm closer to idiot savant than genius," Constance protested._

_"How many languages do you speak?"_

_She hesitated. "A lot."_

_"How many?" he pursued. But there was something about her tone, her expression, that was familiar – himself, not talking about his mother. He didn't repeat the question. "It doesn't matter. Once you're in the school, they don't care what your major is."_

_"But they let me in because of my language skills …"_

_"They don't care," Reid repeated. "All they want from you is to fill their House of Brains. They want to show you off to alumni and prospective students, they want to point and say, look, the best and brightest in the country come here. As long as you're on the fast track to an advanced degree, as long as your grades are good and they know you're going to bring credit – and hopefully alumni money – to the school, they honestly don't care what you study."_

_Constance stared at him. "Are you sure?"_

_"Believe me. I've been there. I'm sure."_

_She thought about it, and then smiled. Really smiled. He felt it all the way to his toes. Still hormones, he knew. At this rate it would be a month before they were back to normal levels._

_"Talk to your counselor," he said. "Trust me, it'll be fine."_

_"Thank you."_

_He didn't want to fold any more paper animals. He just wanted to sit there and watch her smile at him._

_Tony Ford was suddenly behind her. "Hey, Zee, c'mon, I need a little arm candy to show off to the new A.D."_

_She looked up at him impishly. "Will he give me a big box of crayons?"_

_"Maybe. But if he doesn't, and you're a good girl, we'll stop and get a Happy Meal on the way home."_

_"With a milkshake?"_

_"Sure."_

_"And a fruit pie?"_

_Ford tugged her braid fondly. "Getting to be an expensive date, aren't you?"_

_"If it was a date, I'd be ordering the lobster."_

_"That's my girl."_

_She stood and tucked her arm through her father's. "Thanks … Spencer."_

_"Dr. Reid," her father growled._

_"No, it's okay," Reid said quickly. "I mean, it's not …" He stopped, because anything else he said would make it worse. "I'm glad I could help."_  


_Ford led her away. "Help with what?" he grumbled._

_"I'm going to drop out of school and join the circus," Constance answered brightly. She turned suddenly and came back to the table to claim her crane, and the one Reid had made. "Thank you," she said again. And then, just a little louder, "Spencer."_

 

"Spencer? You get lost?"

He jumped. Garcia was staring at him. "What?"

"Where’s my laptop?"

"Oh. Sorry. It’s over … I'll get it, I was just … looking around."

"Uh-huh." She looked over his shoulder at the mirror, first the butts and then the bird. "I see the moon’s full. What is that, a swan?"

"A crane," Reid answered. "Origami."

" _Kazuntite_."

"I made it for Constance years ago. I don't know why she kept it."

Garcia smiled knowingly. "She had a crush on you, handsome."

Reid blushed, shook his head. "She was just a kid."

"Oh, and you were what? Twenty?" Garcia bumped his shoulder teasingly. "She's not a kid anymore."

He looked at her, and then quickly looked away. "I'll, uh, I'll get the laptop."

 ***

"Oh," the baggage claim agent said, " _her_."

Prentiss slid the photo back into the folder. "She was here yesterday."

"She was here." The agent was a black woman of middle years, neat but harried. "Lost her bag. Had her laptop in it. All her important lawyer work. She was very agitated."

"Is 'agitated' code for 'bitchy'?" Morgan guessed.

The woman looked at him and didn't quite nod. "We get that a lot from overseas flyers. They've been stuck on the plane, they're usually hungry, and they've had to check everything, can't get any work done … believe me, I've heard it all. She wasn't as bad as some."

"She filled out some kind of claim form?" Morgan asked. "Was it time-stamped?"

"Of course."

"Can we get a copy of it?" Prentiss asked.

"Sure, sure. What's her name again?"

"Miranda Grail."

"Oh, yeah. Grail." She turned to her computer. After a minute, she said, "Seven-oh-one, we finished up. Here, I'll print you a copy." She hit another button and waited. "Hey. They found it."

"What?"

"Her bag. Turned up this morning. It's on the truck."

"The truck?" Morgan asked.

"It's on the way to her house."

Prentiss and Morgan shared a look. They got the print-out and headed for the security office. "I hope the woman will be as easy to find as her laptop was," Prentiss said quietly.

"Well, we could try filing a claim form," Morgan suggested.  

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Miranda's been gone for weeks," Hotch said, looking around the neater bedroom behind the first door. "Zee said the cleaning woman was in on Friday. She had a key, let herself in. She didn't see anything out of order."

"Cleaning woman?" Reid asked hopefully.

"Been with the family for fifteen years," Hotchner answered. "Ford screened her personally."

"Oh." Reid peered into the closet. "When did Constance get here?" To his right, women’s suits, skirts, lawyer-wear. To his left, a half-empty bar with some casual shirts and sweaters. Tony Ford's clothes were gone, but his widow hadn't quite taken over his closet space yet.

"Saturday, late. She had comps Thursday, and it sounds like they partied all day Friday."

Reid closed the closet door. "She's taking comps already?"

"She's smart. Not as smart as you, of course," Hotch teased gently. "But then, who is?"

Embarrassed, Reid wandered across the hall into the bathroom. A purple toiletry case was open on the vanity, half-packed, the remaining contents spread around it. Make-up, a brush, an oversized hair clip. Two prescription bottles. He picked them up gingerly, turned the labels up.

"Find something?" Hotch called.

Reid struggled for words. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He knew these drugs. He knew these drugs well. Seroquel. Haldol. He knew what they were, and he knew what they did. The very names, printed under _her_ name, made him sick to his stomach.

He closed his eyes very tightly, wishing he could un-see the labels. Not Constance. _Not Constance, too._

"Reid." Hotch put his hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"

Reid opened his eyes, and then his hand. "These are, um, these are …"

"I know what they are," Hotch said, unsurprised.  

"Constance – Zee, she's schizophrenic?"

"Technically. She experiences auditory hallucinations as the result of a very early brain injury."

"Hallucinations.” Reid’s mind, swamped with cortisol, simply refused to process this new information.

"Technically,” Hotchner repeated firmly. “Her brain tries to interpret sound as language. Any sound. Usually she can filter out the non-language components on her own, but she sometimes needs medication to suppress the input."

"Any … sound."

"Music. Birds. Traffic. Rain." Hotch shrugged tightly. "Big black dogs."

"But … but what happened to her?"

“She fell off a footbridge and shattered her skull on the ice below. She was …” For the first time Hotch hesitated, and Reid could see that he left something out when he continued. “The damage to her brain was extensive and she was in a coma for nearly six weeks. When she woke up she had to relearn all of her language skills.”

“And all of her polyglot abilities …” Suddenly a hundred new areas of interest opened in Reid’s mind. The impact of physical damage to the language centers of her brain unexpectedly spawning genius-level acuity … “Why didn’t I know about this? Why doesn’t anybody ever talk about it?”

“She was three years old. She was lucky to be alive. Her enhanced skills weren’t discovered until years later.” Hotchner frowned tightly. “Ford didn’t wanted her treated as a scientific freak show.”

“But this is a one-in-a-million incident. To recover from a cataclysmic brain trauma with previously untapped abilities, the research possibilities are … “

“Reid.”

His enthusiasm snapped as quickly as it had risen. There was another, and more important, aspect to this revelation. “If she’s hallucinating …”

“She’s fully able to differentiate. She knows that the voices she hears aren’t real. I know where you’re going, but she was diagnosed early, and her symptoms are well-controlled. It doesn't play into this case."

"Case." Reid shook himself. "Right, the case. I guess I just … finding anti-psychotics, I just …"

"Don't worry about Zee," Hotchner advised. "Worry about her mother." He glanced around, then headed to the next room.

"Right." Reid looked after him for a moment. Hotchner was certain that Constance Grail was not in the midst of a psychotic break, and Reid agreed that there were no signs of that. But he also understood now why Hotch had been so quick to follow when he heard Gideon had left with the girl. It had been a possibility in the older man’s mind. It had likely been the first thing Hotch had thought of.

Reid looked back at the drugs again. Both bottles were supposed to hold a thirty-day supply; both were over six months old. Hotch was right, she wasn't taking them very often. Which, in the case of the Seroquel, meant it wasn't very effective. Hence the Haldol, the swift-acting fill-in. Both were the lowest available dose. Hallucinations. Constance.

He could explain the hormonal basis of his fear, but that didn't make it any less real. A wave of old responses blasted through his thoughts. She was so young, there was time, he could help her, he could save her … it had been too late for his mother, by the time he saw it, knew what it was, but Constance was young, strong …

All entirely inappropriate. Constance had already been diagnosed and was being treated. As much as anyone with her condition could be treated. She was very nearly asymptomatic; he had picked up quirks in her behavior, but not nearly enough to surmise that she had a major diagnosis. She was a fully functioning adult, well integrated into her social realm. She did not need to be ‘saved’ from anything.

And yet he knew that she had to feel as he felt, at least sometimes. She knew, as he knew, what it was to be afraid of her own mind.   

He was afraid, and he wanted to run.

Not from Constance, but _to_ her.

 ***

"There," Morgan said, pointing to the fuzzy screen with one slender finger. "There’s our girl."

The airport surveillance cameras picked her up leaving the claims desk. She was carrying a shoulder bag and dragging another on wheels. "She has a carry-on," Prentiss said. "Why didn’t she have her laptop in it?"

"It looks full," Morgan said. "Maybe legal papers or something."

The woman stopped next to a row of seats, set the smaller bag down and dug around in it. Came up with a cell phone, hit one number.

"That would be calling her daughter," Prentiss murmured. "Seven-o-four."

"Which puts them both at the restaurant at seven-thirty, more or less," Morgan answered.

They watched as the woman spoke for less than a minute. She tucked the phone away, picked up her bag, and walked out of the camera’s view.

"Next camera," the security agent with them said, pointing to another monitor. He was wearing much too much Old Spice for the little room, but he knew his way around the monitor system. "There she is."

The woman continued past the baggage carousels and towards the exit doors without stopping.  "She hasn’t spoken to anyone yet," Prentiss said.

"So she didn't catch a ride with someone who was on the same plane," Morgan finished, "unless she met them after this."

"Here," the security agent said. The next camera picked her up, watched her out the main doors to the outside of the terminal.

"All right," Morgan said. "So we know she got all the way to the cab stand on her own. Where’re the outside tapes?"

The airport agent grimaced. "There aren’t any."

"There what?" Prentiss said.

"You’re telling me that in this day and age, there aren’t any exterior cameras on this airport terminal?" Morgan demanded.

"There are cameras," the agent said, spreading his hands. "They're there, they are. But, uh, they keep getting wet and seizing up."

"Ah, you have got to be kidding, man!"

"It’s not the cameras, really, it’s the wiring – we’ve had five different electricians out here, fixing them. They work for a while, and then the minute it gets cold or wet, they’re out again. We don’t, uh, we don’t advertise that, of course."

Prentiss sighed. "And the cameras didn’t work last night."

The agent shook his head apologetically. "We got them back on about ten this morning. The rain, you know. Been raining for a week."

"Yeah, we noticed." Morgan shook his head. "Well, thanks for your help anyhow."

They left the stuffy room. "Now what?" Prentiss said.

"Now we do it the hard way," Morgan answered. Glumly, he opened his phone and reported their questionable progress to Hotchner. Then they walked down to the cab stand to start looking for witnesses.

 ***

Garcia stared at the girl's laptop with open jealousy.

It was better than hers.

Zee was a graduate student. What was she doing with such a monstrously over-powered laptop?

The outside case was old and battered. It had bumper stickers on the lid. 'We Need a President Who's Fluent In At Least One Language' and 'Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.' She had the same sign in her bedroom. Dr. Seuss. Garcia approved. As words to live by went, those were pretty damn good.  

Whatever the outside of the computer looked like, under the hood it was all brand-new and shiny.

"Not fair," Garcia grumbled. "It's not fair." Then she put the little box to work. 

 ***

It had stopped raining, for the moment. JJ paced the driveway slowly, listening to her cell phone play an electronic version of ‘Muskrat Love’ while yet another police dispatcher went through her list of calls for the night.

At least she didn’t have lyrics to contend with.

"Young lady? Young lady?"

JJ looked around the yard. The voice – female, straining for volume – had come from the fence at the side of the yard. But there was no one there. "Hello?" she called back cautiously.

"Here, dearie."

The agent walked slowly towards the fence,. Through a crack between the boards, she finally saw one eye watching her. She approached it cautiously. "Hello?"

"Here I am, dearie."

The fence was only five feet high. JJ peered over the top and looked down on a tiny old woman, who gazed up at her. "Uh … hello," she said for a third time.

"Are you looking for Miranda?"

"Yes. Have you seen her?"

"Not for weeks and weeks. She's been in London, you know. But Zee said she was coming home yesterday. She's so worried. I'm glad you're helping her. I made some cookies."

The old woman held up a plate. It was covered with a kitchen towel. JJ reached for it. It was unexpectedly heavy, and warm, and the unmistakable scent of fresh chocolate chip cookies wafted up. "Thank you."

"Do you think you'll find her?"

"I'm sure we will," JJ lied. She hoped they would.

"Because they never did find Mrs. Mosby, you know."

The agent's intuition tickled. "Mrs. Mosby?" she asked encouragingly.

The old woman nodded solemnly. "She goes to my church. Well, went. Then back at the holidays – let's see, it must have been Thanksgiving, there was no one in church that Sunday but Helen always was, Helen Mosby, that's her name, she wasn't there either and I thought it was odd, but she never did come back."

"Was there an investigation?"

"Oh, yes. The police came around and talked to us. At the church. But no one knew anything. They decided she must've just up and left, finally. Well, her husband, you know, he beat her terribly. She never said, but sometimes she'd come to church with so much make-up, you know, to cover, and sometimes she didn't come at all."

JJ nodded thoughtfully, her intuition relaxing. "I suppose she might have just left, then."

The woman nodded again. "He doesn't care a bit, from what I hear. But her daughters were just frantic."

"Her daughters?"

"And her boy, too, I imagine, but he's out in Chicago. They're all grown, you know. The oldest girl lives out by Reston, and the younger one way south, but they'd come see her once a month or so, come to church with the grandbabies – but they haven't heard from her, either. I don't know what to think. A woman might go off and leave her husband, but to leave her children like that, without a word, I just don't know."

JJ nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you," she said. "For the cookies. It's very thoughtful."

"You tell Zee I'm going to go pray for her."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate that."

The tiny woman walked to her car. Once she was in, she was invisible. Shaking her head, and with ‘Afternoon Delight’ now playing in her ear, JJ carried the cookies into the house.

 ***

"These are great," Garcia said, snagging two more cookies off the plate.

"There’s nothing like them when they’re hot," JJ agreed. "Here, Hotch, try these. The neighbor made them."

"Talk to me," Hotch said, around the gooey mouthful of cookie.

"Nothing to say," Garcia reported. "I ran the firefighters. One was reprimanded for posting semi-nude pictures of himself on MySpace."

"Can we see?" JJ asked.

"Still looking for them," Garcia answered. "No criminal history on any of them. Naturally. On the contractor side, I got one painter with a three-year-old DUI, and one carpenter who was party to a domestic abuse case last year." She held her hand up. "Don't get excited. He was the plaintiff. His wife broke a beer bottle over his head."

"What about the insurance adjustor who asked Miranda out?"

"He moved to Wisconsin six weeks ago."

"From what Morgan says," Hotch mused, "Miranda walked out of the main terminal on her own. No one outside remembers her. Which means there was no struggle."

"I got nothing from cab companies," JJ reported. "She met someone she knew, and she got in their car."

"I'm working on that," Garcia said. She held up a legal pad, the pages curled from use. "There have got to be a hundred names here. And then we've got the address book and the legal firm to go through, and then, oh joy, the client list. And all of that's assuming it wasn't someone she knew through Ford or Zee."

She gestured to the cell phone at her elbow. "I ran phone records. Miranda's cell phone called this one at seven-o-four last night, talked for sixty-eight seconds. Then it was turned off."

"We'll know if it comes back on, right?" Hotch asked.

"Of course." Garcia shot him an annoyed look. "Now this phone, this phone has been very busy indeed. Starting about eight last night, calls all over the place. At first one every fifteen minutes, and then one somewhere on the average of every five minutes all night long. Police, hospitals, exactly what she told us. Except two that are kind of interesting. One to London, Ontario. The other to Sydney, Australia."

"The 9/11 contacts," Hotch said.

"The what?" JJ asked.

"Ford was in Manhattan on 9/11," he explained. "He wasn't hurt, but it took him four days to get in touch with them. So they set up a list of alternate numbers, in case all domestic lines were down. People they knew outside the US who could relay messages for them."

"So … she thought her mother couldn't call across town, but might be able to call Australia?" Garcia asked.

"She was trying everything she could think of," JJ answered. "See what you can find out about Helen Mosby."

"Who’s she?"

"The neighbor said she disappeared last Thanksgiving. It’s probably nothing. She left an abusive husband behind, the kids are all grown and gone, but … maybe."

Hotchner sighed. "Take a look. Then get back to the list."

 ***

Bremmers was a nice restaurant, steak and seafood, mid-priced. There was a bar in the back, but it was the sort of place people brought their kids to. The whole place smelled like really good meat.  

"I wasn't hungry until I walked in here," Prentiss said.

Morgan glanced at his watch. "We missed lunch. We'll talk to the manager and then grab something on the way back."

"Burgers was not actually what I had in mind," she said with a sigh.

The manager came over to their table. He was dark-eyed, olive-skinned, Greek, and though his English was perfect, he carried a vague accent still. "You are the ones looking for Miss Miranda?"

"Yes."

The man sat down with them. "You have not found her yet, then? Miss Zee must be beside herself."

"She's holding up," Morgan said. "They're regular customers?"

"Miss Zee is, when she's in town. Very nice girl. Very nice manners. She used to come here with her father quite often when she was a girl. He's dead now, you know."

"We know," Prentiss said.

"Poor man, poor man. Mr. Tony and his daughter, they would come here for dinner when Miss Miranda was working late. A lawyer, she is. Mr. Tony, he was a good father, but not much of a cook, I think."

Morgan nodded. Tony Ford, he remembered, couldn't boil water. Gideon, who was something of a gourmet, never stopped needling him about it. "Zee was here last night," he prompted gently.

"Yes, yes. She came at the end of the dinner rush. We have early rush, you know, so many families, children. She had the booth there in front. She said Miss Miranda was on her way and she was starving, so she ordered for both of them. And appetizers, as soon as we could."

On cue, a waiter brought a large platter with an assortment of appetizers. He put it in the middle of the table, then dealt small plates to each of the agents. "Ah – we didn't order this," Prentiss said.

"I know, I know," the manager answered. "But you look hungry. Please. Be my guests."

The agents looked at each other warily. They were hungry; the food smelled great. And clearly, accepting his hospitality would put their witness more at ease. Morgan reached for a shrimp.   

"So she got here about, what, seven?" Prentiss asked, snagging a stuffed mushroom.

The manager considered. "Perhaps a little later. Maybe seven-thirty. We had a bad rush, and the kitchen was just beginning to recover. She ordered – I said that. And then, I took her the appetizers myself, we chatted a bit. No Miss Miranda. I got called to the kitchen. Perhaps an hour went by, and still no Miss Miranda."

"What did Zee do?" Morgan asked.

"She bought a newspaper, I believe," the manager said. "She read it, did the crossword. Some of it. And then she started making phone calls. On her cell phone. She was quite agitated. I knew that something was wrong. And yet she didn't want to be a bother. You understand how it is, with young women. They don't want to make a fuss. I brought her the phone book. We held her meals in the kitchen. She made phone calls, she walked around the parking lot several times. Finally she had us box the food, she paid her check, and she left. I asked her to stay, at least to eat something before she left. But she could see we were closing. As I say, she didn't want to be a bother."

"But you could tell she was upset," Morgan said.

"Yes. And more so as the time passed.  She seemed quite distressed. Has something happened to Miss Miranda?"

The agents exchanged another look. "We don't know yet," Morgan said. "At the moment we're simply considering her a missing person."

"Oh, I hope she will be found soon. They are such a nice family."

"We're doing everything we can," Prentiss assured him. "Thanks for the food, it was delicious."

The manager stood up. "When you find her, Miss Miranda, you tell her to come back here and we will prepare her a feast, everything she likes. You will tell her?"

"We'll tell her," Morgan promised.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Peter D. Drucker said, "The most important thing in communication is to hear what isn't being said."_

  ***

Gideon paused in the doorway. Constance was sitting in the corner of the window seat, nestled in the folds of the heavy satin drapery. From there she was concealed from the outside, but she could see both the driveway and the front door. She was motionless, practically invisible – unless one had watched her grow up hiding in that corner.

 

_"You go first," Ford said._

_Gideon looked at him, suspecting a trap. "Why?"_

_"You’ll see," Ford grinned. "Go ahead."_

_Cautiously, Gideon stepped through the front door. A small figure exploded from his left, from the shadows, a rocket in white, and he crouched instinctively and caught her out of the air, very nearly knocked over by the charging seven-year old in her nightgown._

_She squealed in surprise. "You’re not Daddy!"_

_"No, I'm not," Gideon agreed._

_She looked at her father, who was grinning at his little prank. Then she snuggled deeper in Gideon’s embrace. "That’s okay, Uncle Jason. I like you better anyhow."_

_"Oh, you little imp!" Ford protested, yanking her into his own arms and tossing her in the air while she squealed again with laugher. "You see what I have to put up with, Jason? From my only child, I get this abuse."_

_Gideon laughed. "You totally deserved that, Tony."_

 

But Ford would never walk through that door again. Gideon closed his eyes and bit back on his grief. _First the living, then the dead_. "Zee?"

"I'm here," she answered softly. Then she turned to look at him. "You knew that."

"Yes." He went and sat beside her on the cushioned seat. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know."

"Zee. Tell me what you're thinking."

She shook her head.

"Do you want me to tell you what you're thinking?" Gideon offered. She remained watchful, silent. "You're thinking that you're a terrible person, a terrible daughter. Because you're thinking that it almost would have been easier to bear if Hotch had come to the door and told you that your mother was dead."

Constance continued to stare at him. She didn't deny it.

"Uncertainty is hard," Gideon told her. "Wishing you had an answer – any answer – isn't the same as wishing your mother was dead. It's completely normal."

"I hate profilers," she answered quietly. " _Ich wünschte, daß ich nicht wüßte, was ich weiß."_

Gideon frowned. "Again?"

"What?"

"I didn't understand you."

Constance's eyes got wider. "I've been doing that all day."

"Stress." There had been a time, he knew, when such a slip would have made her hysterical, terrified that she was losing control of her mind. It had taken years for her to learn to simply correct herself and go on.

She sighed. "I wish I didn't know what I know. I wish I didn't know that after twenty-four hours the odds of finding her alive drop way off. I wish I didn't know that every time JJ makes a phone call and doesn't find an answer, the odds get worse. I wish I …" she paused, fought back tears, "…I wish I didn't know what could be happening to her."

"Zee." Gideon took her hands. They were like ice.

"And I wish," she went on, "I wish I didn't know what a hope zombie was. And that I wasn't turning into one."

Gideon flinched. "I've always hated that phrase."

"I know. But it's accurate. God, but it's accurate."

Tony Ford had invented the phrase, and Gideon had to agree, it was accurate. Hope zombies. The family members of the missing, when they had nothing left to go on but hope. They didn't eat or sleep, they didn't talk on the phone except nervously, swiftly. They didn't go outside. They sat on the edges of the couches, watching the news, only the news, clicking compulsively between channels. They didn't bathe, they didn't make love, they didn't walk in the sunshine. They barely spoke. The only stimulus that affected them was a ringing phone or a knock on the door. They only sat, and waited, and hoped.

"Last night," Constance said, "I told myself, of course she'd be there by eight. And then, of course she'd be there by nine. Of course I'd hear from her by midnight. Of course she'd be here by sunrise. And now … I can see myself, Jason, sitting right here, weeks and months and years, never going back to school, never going anywhere, in case she called and I wasn't here …I can see myself trapped her, waiting, bleeding to death one drop of hope at a time."

"I won't let that happen to you," Gideon said firmly. "We'll find her. I promise. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I won't give up on her."

She looked out the window again. "It doesn't help, really, to know that you're trapped in this with me."

"We'll get out of it. I promise."

Constance shook her head.

They both jumped when the Suburban turned into the driveway. "Morgan," Gideon said. "Prentiss."

"They didn't find anything, did they?" she asked sadly.

"Not yet." Gideon patted her hands again and stood up. "Sit tight. I'll see what's going on."

Hotch came to the doorway. "Zee? The garage door won't open."

She stirred. "It's broke. The opener. You have to go in the side door and pull that handle down, and then you can open the main door by hand."

"Okay."

"Mom said the guy would be out this week to fix it."

Hotch nodded and went out. Gideon followed him.

"How's she doing?" Hotch asked softly.

"Not good," Gideon answered. "She's slipping away."

"She's a tough kid, Jason. She'll make it."

"She thinks she's turning into a hope zombie."

Hotchner grimaced. "I thought I'd never hear that phrase again."

"Me, too."

From the front room, much too brightly, Constance called, "There's someone here."

Both agents moved quickly in her direction. "You stay put," Gideon ordered sharply, reaching the front door before her. He opened the door cautiously, but Morgan and Prentiss were already outside, greeting the delivery driver.

"Laptop," Morgan called, claiming the mid-sized bag.

"Bring it in," Hotch called back.

 ***

"Hey, sweet thing," Morgan said, "you miss me?"

"Constantly," Garcia answered. "What'd you bring me?"

"Miranda's laptop." He put the computer on the desk. "Make me a little magic. Find out what she was up to."

"For you, precious, anything." She opened the computer and powered it on. Then she swore, very softly.

"What?" Morgan looked over her shoulder. Then he swore, too. "Dead Bolt."

Garcia reached for the keyboard, then drew her hands back. "Maybe Zee knows her password."

"Worth asking." He went to the door. "Zee? Hey, Zee?"

She practically bounced into the room. "What'd you find?" she asked hopefully.

"A password program," Morgan said. "You know your mom's password, right?"

"Nnn … maybe."

"You got six chances to be right," Garcia said. "Then the hard drive slags itself."

"I know how it works," Constance answered. She gestured and Garcia gave up her chair. After a moment of thought, she typed in a password.

It was wrong. So was the next one.

"Slow down," Morgan advised. "Think about it."

Gideon came to the doorway. "What is it?"

"Dead Bolt," Prentiss reported.

"Damn."

"We already said that."

Constance reached for the keyboard again. "You only got four chances left," Morgan reminded her.

She stopped, glared at him, put her hands back in her lap.

"Morgan," Gideon said, "Prentiss, Hotch is searching the car. Why don't you go help him?"

"Hotchner can search a car on his own …" Prentiss began.

"Not the point," Morgan said. He collected her with a nod and headed out.

"Go ahead," Gideon told the girl.

She tried another password. It didn't work. Neither did the next one.

Reid came to the door. "Anything on the laptop?"

"Working on it," Garcia said. She shot a nervous look to Gideon, held up two fingers.

The next password didn't work, either, and the counter on the screen was down to one.

"If she doesn't get this one," Reid said, "the hard drive will reformat itself and we'll lose everything."

"We _know_ ," Garcia said.

Constance turned in her chair and looked to Gideon. "Well? Is it safe?"

He glanced at Reid, at Garcia. "I trust them with my life. Both of them."

"I'm not sure I can do this."

"Of course you can, Peanut."

She turned back to the computer.

"Uh, Gideon …" Garcia said nervously.

"Nothing you see," he warned firmly, "leaves this room. Understand?"

"Uh …"

Reid moved forward as the log-in screen disappeared. "I thought this program couldn't be hacked."

"It's never been hacked," Garcia said. She leaned over the girl's other shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Why can't it be hacked?" Constance asked conversationally, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

"Everybody's tried," Garcia answered. "It can't be done."

"Why?"

"Probably because it's wet-code."

The girl nodded grimly. The screen turned purple, then orange, and then a screen full of characters appeared, line after line of gibberish.

"What's wet-code?" Reid asked.

"It's like wet-work, only for computers."

"Wet-work?"

"Professional murder," Gideon provided. He sat on the couch on the other side of the room, unconcerned.

"Wet-code is written by a fleshy -- a person," Garcia explained. "A computer can decrypt any inscription written by another computer. Any code, once you find the key. Wet-code is written by a person, so a computer can't sort it out. In theory, anyhow. I've never seen it."

"You have now," Gideon commented. He picked up a magazine and leafed through it.

"You're kidding." Garcia leaned further forward as Constance began to type again. "You're going in the back door."

"Yes."

"How do you know how?"

She gestured to the screen. "It tells me."

"You can decrypt that."

"It's not code."

"It's language," Reid said, suddenly understanding. "It's a created language."

"Created … made-up?" Garcia said. "And you understand this made-up language?"

Constance glanced at her, half-smiled. "It's Zee-14."

"Zee … as in Zee. You, Zee."

"Fourteen," Reid mused, "the fourteenth language you wrote?"

"No. That's how old I was." She paused to read the instructions again, then keyed in more commands.

"Wait," Garcia said. "You're telling me that the most impregnable password program ever created

was written by a fourteen-year-old?"

"No," Constance said. "I don't know anything about programming."

"But you just said …"

"The uber-geeks wrote the program. I just translated it. But because no one can crack the language, no one can crack the program."

She paused. The screen ran through a rainbow of colors, settled on green. She typed a few more commands and hit enter.

"Every couple months," Constance continued, "they send me the updates and I translate them and send them back."

"Which explains the massive computer brains." Garcia nodded. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what does that pay?"

The girl hesitated. "I bought my daddy a Jaguar," she said wistfully. Then she typed again. 

Reid straightened. "Could that be a motive for kidnapping?"

"Oh, God," Constance breathed, "I never thought of that."

"I did," Gideon answered calmly. "But it's not. No one knows who the translator is."

"No one?"

"Zee, her parents, two men at the top of the software company. And it’s obviously in their interest to keep it secret."

" _You_ knew," Reid pointed out.

"Not for certain, not until just now," Gideon answered.

Constance rubbed her eyes. "You're sure?"

"They would have called well before you ever got to me."

She reached for the keyboard again. Four more keystrokes, a distinctly obscene word, and the screen opened. "You're in," she said, relinquishing the chair.

"Uh … thank you," Garcia said, sitting down. "Damn. If I’d known you could do that …"

The girl had already wandered out of the room.

Reid looked after her anxiously. "Gideon, is she okay?"

Gideon put down the magazine, no longer bothering to mask his concern. "No. But the only thing that would really help her is the one thing we can’t find."

 ***

"All right," Hotch said, when the team had assembled again in the living room. "We’ve exhausted the other possibilities. We’re down to assuming that Miranda Grail has been abducted. So what do we know about our unsub?"

"He had to be someone she knew," Prentiss said. "Outside the terminal would have been fairly well-populated. No one noticed her, so she must not have made any fuss."

"What if he had a gun?" Reid countered.

Gideon rocked on his feet, seeing it.

_The doors opened; she stepped from the warm, well-lit terminal onto the relatively darker, colder sidewalk. Heavy bag over her shoulder, heavy bag trailing behind her. Angry, frustrated, hungry, in a hurry. Looking for a cab, not paying attention to much else. Not surprised to have people crowded all around her. Then from behind, a man too close, something hard against her ribs and a voice in her ear …_

"She would have made him shoot her," Constance said flatly.

"Are you sure?" Hotch asked.

The woman nodded. "Too many years with Dad. We both know the odds. She’d be better off letting him shoot her right there, take her chances, than getting in a car with him."

"What if he said he had you?" Reid asked.

_The unknown man at her back, the gun in her ribs, and the voice said, "I have your daughter. If you want her to live, come with me." The woman froze …_

"No," Constance answered. "She’d still take the chance."

"Someone she knew," Gideon mused. "Someone she knew."

_Angry, frustrated, hungry, in a hurry. Looking for a cab, not paying attention to much else. A friendly voice. "Miranda! How are you!"_

_The woman turned and looked at the man. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew his voice. "What are you doing here?"_

_"Just dropped my uncle off. It’s easier to get in here than down at the boarding gate. Hey, that looks heavy, you want a ride?"_

_"I’m not going home, I’m meeting Zee at Bremmers …"_

_"That’s right on my way, I’ll drop you. Here, let me get your bag …"_

"Someone she knew," Gideon said again. "She was tired, hungry. In no mood for conversation. Would have preferred a cab, but once he had her suitcase, she didn’t want to be rude." He turned to Constance. "All those years with your dad. Who would you get in a car with?"

She thought about it. "Not a lot of people, not yesterday," she finally answered. "Most days – people I went to school with, people I worked with – but not yesterday. I didn’t want to be around anybody. Neither did she. Except each other. Even not to be rude."

Morgan said, "The question becomes, then, did our unsub know that? Is he highly organized, did he know about the outside cameras, or was he just lucky?"

"How did he know when she was coming?" JJ returned. "Her schedule changed so many times -- you can’t just stand around outside the terminal all day."

"Unless you have a badge or a uniform," Prentiss added.

Constance took a deep breath, then exhaled without speaking.

"What?" Gideon pressed.

She shook her head. "I don’t wanna."

"You’d have gotten in a car with someone with a badge," Reid said. "Someone who said they knew your father."

She wrapped her arms around her knees. "I hate profilers."

_Angry, frustrated, hungry, in a hurry. Looking for a cab, not paying attention to much else. A concerned voice. "I’m sorry to bother you, but aren’t you Tony Ford’s widow? I worked with him …"_

"She would have," Hotch said.  

"So the first question," Gideon said, "is where was _I_ last night?"

"Please tell me you weren’t alone," Hotch replied, half-serious.

"I wasn’t."

"Good."

"We won’t find a background," Prentiss said. "The Bureau, Homeland, they’ve all been screened."

"Which doesn’t mean one of them hasn’t gone off the reservation," Morgan countered.

"What about …" Constance stopped again.

"Zee," Gideon said firmly.

"People she wouldn’t have been rude to, yesterday," Constance said. "Someone with a badge. Or … one of the other family members."

"Oh, shit," Morgan said under his breath.

Gideon shook his head. "The other agents killed were from Boston. She didn’t know the other families."

"We went to the funerals," Constance said.

"All of them?"

"You went to all six funerals?" Prentiss said.

"Seven," Constance corrected quietly. She didn’t take her eyes off Gideon. "If one of them had shown up, alone … she would have brought him along to dinner. She would have shared, with him. Or her."

Gideon closed his eyes very tightly.

_Angry, frustrated, hungry, in a hurry. Looking for a cab, not paying attention to much else. A sad voice. "I’m sorry, aren’t you Tony Ford’s wife? I know you won’t remember me, we met at my brother’s funeral. Boston, three years ago …"_

_"Of course I remember you. How are you?"_

_"I’m, uh … it’s been three years today. It’s tough."_

_"I know. Are you here alone?"_

"Yes," Gideon said quietly.  

"Garcia," Hotchner called. "I need you to run some more backgrounds. See if any of the family members of the agents that were killed in Boston flew in last night."

The tech stood and came to the door. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Oh, man." She went back into the study. "Oh, man."  


As she sat down, the cell phone on the desk rang.

Constance scrambled towards it. "Wait," Gideon barked.

Garcia snatched the phone away and handed it to Gideon. It rang again.

"All right," Gideon said. He gestured for quiet, opened it gingerly as it rang again and hit the speaker button. Then he gestured for Constance to speak.

"Hello?" she said, her voice trembling.

A woman’s scream filled the room.

Constance went white. Gideon grabbed her arm, nearly dropped the phone. The scream went on for nearly ten seconds. Hotch moved swiftly, grabbed the girl around the waist and dropped her into the chair Garcia had vacated.

Then the scream stopped, and a woman’s voice shouted, "You did it, girlfriend!"

There was a moment of silence.

The woman on the phone said, "Zee? You there?"

Constance swallowed. "Trish?"

"Hell, yeah, who’d you think it was?" The voice was suddenly cheerful again. "You ready? You passed your comps!"

The girl stared at the phone blankly. "What?"

"You passed your comps, girlfriend! You’re gonna be Doctor Zee in no time. The Galactica fans go crazy!"

The team, understanding the conversation, visibly relaxed.

"I … but … results won’t post until Friday."

"Yeah, yeah. We took the chair’s secretary out for lunch, got her loaded on Jaggermeister. She told us everything. You passed, I passed, oh, that Briana wench flunked, yay."

"I … I …"

"You alright, Zee?"

"I can’t really talk right now."

There was a pause. "You got a man there?"

"Several," Constance said blankly. "Women, too."

"All right, party girl. Now you got something to party about."

"I can’t talk," the girl repeated. "I’ll, uh, I’ll call you tomorrow."

The voice on the phone was suddenly concerned. "You all right, baby?"

"I got … I’ll call you. And … thanks."

"Sure. You call me, right?"

"Right."

Gideon reached over and disconnected the phone. "Zee. Breathe."

"Want me to get the peas?" Reid offered.

She shook her head. She was still dead-pale, dazed. "I need … _ik heb nodig_ … I need …" She pushed herself to her feet and left the room.

There was another moment. Gideon stirred. "Garcia. Get on the family members. And then anybody from the Boston office who was here."

"FBI?" she asked, surprised.

"Start with family," Hotch said.

They heard Constance make her way slowly up the stairs. A door closed softly. "I think you better answer the phone from now on," Hotch commented.

"I think you’re right," Gideon answered.

Reid looked thoughtfully towards the steps. Then he straightened sharply.

"What?" JJ asked.

"I’ll be right back," he answered. He bolted up the steps two at a time.  

 


	7. Chapter 7

As Reid had expected, the bathroom door was closed. He hesitated. It was going to be damned embarrassing if he walked in on her urinating, or vomiting. On the other hand, if he knocked and she was actually doing what his intuition said she was doing, it gave her time …

He heard the soft, distinct rattle of pills in a plastic bottle. Without knocking, he pushed the door open.

Constance froze, staring at him. She had the pill bottle in one hand; her other fist was closed, half-way to her mouth. A glass of water waited beside the sink. Reid moved swiftly and grabbed her wrist. Her skin felt like ice. Her pupils got bigger, but she did not speak.

"Open it," Reid commanded softly.

She continued to stare at him.   
  
"Constance. Open your hand."

Her eyes never left his. Slowly, she opened her fingers.

A single pill rested in her palm.

Reid exhaled, surprised that he’d been holding his breath. He released her wrist. "I’m sorry, I …"

"There’s nothing wrong with your instincts," she said gently. "It crossed my mind.  But … to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub." She put down the pill bottle and took her single pill.

Reid looked away, though he wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed for himself or for her.

"Two days ago," Constance said, still quietly, "passing comps was like the biggest thing in the world. And now it doesn’t mean anything."

"It’s an important achievement," Reid said. "You should be proud of yourself. Passing comprehensive examinations is a major accomplishment …" he managed to stop himself. "I’m sorry. Maybe … I mean … I’m sure you’ll get to celebrate it. Soon."

"You’re not sure of any such thing." She glanced at the clock. "In three more hours we’ll be past twenty-four. And you know as well as I do that the odds we’ll find her alive after that are …"

"Don’t," Reid said. "Don’t drive yourself crazy with the odds. That’s a statistic, gathered from all the cases in the country for an unlimited amount of time. This isn’t a statistic. It’s one case."

She studied him for a moment. Those big green eyes, so serious, so sorrowful, and the hormones triggered again, as the earlier adrenaline rush faded, oxytocin took over, the drug of attachment, of caring.

Reid frowned, wondering if he would ever feel an emotion without automatically discounting it with the physiological explanation. Because, of course, intellectualizing the emotional experience was a way of distancing himself from the actual experience. He analyzed his own emotions to keep himself from feeling them. And he knew it.

He wished he didn’t know as much as he did. Again.

"Can I tell you something stupid?" Constance asked.

"If you want to," Reid answered warily.

She picked up one of the pill bottles. "I don’t take them all the time. I don’t need them, and the side effects are so God-awful … but like a true schizophrenic, I always miss the decision point. The place where I’m sick enough to need them and still well enough to know I need them. You know what I mean?"

Reid nodded. He knew exactly.

"I always wait too long, and then even though I can't shut out the noise, I convince myself I can handle it, that I don’t need the drugs. That I never need the drugs again, that I’m just fine. And I …" She paused. "I call my mom and I tell her I don’t need my drugs any more. And she can tell by the tone in my voice that I really really need them. But she doesn’t argue with me. She just tells me she’s busy. Every time. Three in the morning, she says, ‘You’re probably right, you probably don’t need them anymore, but I’m busy right now, honey, so just take one pill and call me back in an hour and we’ll talk about it as much as you want.’ And then she hangs up on me."

"Do you take your one pill?"

"Yes. And of course, in an hour I’m well enough to know I still need them."

"Good for you."

Constance shook her head. "Last night, in the middle of all these calls, in the middle of … I picked up the phone and tried to call her so she could tell me to take my pill. And I was really angry that she didn’t answer her phone. How stupid is that? When she might be … when she might be … how juvenile and selfish is that?"

"Constance …"

"I hate myself. I should be thinking about _her_ , and all I keep coming back to is what’s going to happen to _me_."

"Don’t," Reid said. "That’s your mind’s way of protecting itself from something it can’t cope with."

She pushed new-forming tears away impatiently. "It’s crap."

"No, it's not. You don’t know where your mother is or what’s happening to her. And because of your father, you know that the possibilities are pretty horrible. So your mind won’t dwell on them, because it can’t. Instead it’s focusing on what it _can_ control, on an outcome it _can_ predict."

"It can?" Constance asked, surprised.

"Of course it can. _You_ know, even if you don’t want to admit it, you _know_ , that if your mother is dead, your life will go on. You know how hard it will be, but you know you can get through it. Because you’ve gotten through it before."

She turned and looked steadfastly at the shower door.

"It’s not juvenile, and it’s not selfish," Reid said quietly, "to protect your own sanity. Especially when putting it at risk wouldn’t save your mother anyhow."

She took a long shaky breath. "Okay, maybe I don’t _always_ hate profilers."

Reid nodded. For a moment, he was unable to speak himself. _If someone had said those words to me, if only …_ Then he shook it off.  He reached into his jacket and brought out one of his ridiculously formal Official FBI Agent cards. "I want you to keep this," he said, offering it to her. "If you need to call someone and your mom’s not answering … I’ll know the tone in your voice, too. And I’ll hang up on you just like she does."

Constance looked at him uncertainly. Her eyes were full of tears, and she kept blinking them back. She took the card and crumpled it in her hand, not in distain but as if it were a lifeline that might slip away.  "I can’t …"

"Yes, you can." He took the pill bottle from her other hand and put it down. Then he consciously let the old caretaker pattern take over. "Have you eaten at all today?"

Though she couldn’t know it, she gave the old standard response. "I’m not really hungry."

Reid nodded. He was on familiar ground now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be – part of him hated it, hated that he was dealing with this beautiful young woman exactly as he would have dealt with his mother on one of her bad days – but at least it was familiar and safe. "Come on. We’ll find you something to eat."

 ***

Garcia glared at the desktop computer. It was crazy fast and powerful, but it still wasn’t her baby. Now that she was trying to thread through the multi-layered security of the Bureau’s own defenses, the cracks were showing.

It was loading, but not fast.

She turned to Miranda’s computer while she waited.

Morgan came in and put a hot cup of coffee at her elbow. "Anything?"

"Not yet. Like slogging through molasses." She took a sip of coffee, then leaned to put the cup far away from the computers.

"You’ll get there. You’re the Source of all Knowledge."

"I am," Garcia agreed. She scrolled through Miranda’s e-mails. There were 57 unopened spams in the junk folder. Six new messages. None very suggestive. She opened the older messages without much enthusiasm. "Hey, Morgan?"

"Yeah?"

"We got here before noon, right?"

"Right."

"And there haven’t been any phone calls all day."

"No, except that crazy one. Why, you find something?" He moved closer, then backed away at her glare and put his coffee down before he came to lean over her shoulder.

"Well, maybe. This e-mail, from yesterday. ‘Sorry to hear about your delay. Hope you don't get delayed again. No problem rescheduling.’" 

Morgan took over reading. "’I have a little time tomorrow, I’ll stop by and look at your garage door about noon. If that’s too early shoot me an e-mail and I’ll call for a better time.’" He leaned back. "She might have called him from her cell."

Garcia shook her head. "The only person she called all day yesterday was Zee."

"And there’s no responding e-mail, either?"

"Nope."

"You’re the genius, Baby Girl." He straightened. "Hotch, Gideon! We got something."

 ***

"You know Bob Cooper?" Hotch asked as soon as Constance came in.

"Sure," she answered immediately. "That’s Old Smokey, the electrician."

"Have you heard from him today?"

"No. Why?"

"He said he was going to come by at noon to fix the garage door. He never showed up. Never called to reschedule. And we know Miranda didn’t call him to cancel."

Garcia reported, "He’s got no criminal background. Lives alone in a rental house, owns his truck. Pays his bills on time. Works as an independent contractor on a lot of construction jobs, some insurance repairs and some side work. Apparently pays taxes on all of it. His license is current. No complaints about him with the Better Business Bureau."

"Did he ever work at the airport?" Prentiss asked.

"Not directly, that I can find, but he works for general contractors, so we can't rule it out. I'm checking that."

Gideon turned towards the girl. "Would she have gotten in the car with him?"

Constance faltered. "I don’t … I don’t know. Maybe."

_Angry, frustrated, hungry, in a hurry. Looking for a cab, not paying attention to much else. A friendly voice. "Hey, Miss Grail! How are you!"_

_The woman turned and looked at the man. "Bob, what are you doing here?"_

_"They called me out to do some work. Lighting. Hey, that looks heavy." He grabbed her rolling bag. "I just finished up, you want a ride?"_

_"I’m not going home, I’m headed to Bremmers …"_

_"That’s right on my way, I’ll drop you."_

_"I don’t want to put you to any trouble."_

_"No trouble at all. My truck’s right here." He opened the door, threw her bag behind the seat. "Hop in. It’s not fancy, but it’s a lot cheaper than them cabs would be …"_

 

"Get me an address," Gideon snapped.

"Right here," Garcia answered, handing him a post-it note. "It’s about ten blocks from here."

Gideon headed for the door. Hotchner grabbed his arm. "Where do you think you’re going?"

"I’m going to get Miranda back."

"Without a warrant?"

Gideon shook him arm free. "I don’t need a damn warrant."

"Yes, you do," Hotch said, very firmly. "If she’s there we’ll get her, but we’ve got to do this right."

"We don’t even have an open case yet," JJ said quietly.

"And we can’t go through the local police," Prentiss added.

"I don’t think we have enough for a warrant," Morgan agreed. "If we can put him at the airport last night …"

"Tie him to the other missing woman," JJ suggested.

"We don’t have time for that," Gideon snarled. "If he’s got her, he already knows we’re looking for him. He won’t keep her long. I’m going."

Hotch grabbed him again. "Jason, you can’t just go rushing in there blind."

"Let go." Gideon's voice was icy, commanding.

Hotchner did not obey.

His own voice dropped to a near-whisper. "The last time you rushed into something, Jason, her father died." He barely gestured with his head towards Constance. "Are you willing to risk the same thing happening to her mother?"

 

_"I got him," Gideon announced jubilantly, holding Bale’s coat while they cuffed him. "Go get the hostage."_

_Ford was the first one to the door.  "Let’s go, guys …"_

 

Gideon stared at him, speechless with hurt and rage. The room went dead silent. Then Constance was between them. She took Hotchner's hand and pushed it firmly away from Gideon. "Stop it," she said. "That's not fair."

"No," Gideon said. He paced swiftly away from her, awash in uncertainty. "No, he's right. We could … if she's still alive, if we spook him, we could …but if we wait, he could … " He shook his head. "We’ve got to get into that house."

"Agreed," Hotch said. "But we need to think it through."

"I could go," Constance said. "Smokey knows me. If I knocked on the door, told him my mom was missing and I was just looking everywhere could think of …I’m just a girl looking for her mother. Not someone with a badge."

"He might let you in," Reid agreed. "Let you take a look around."

"No," Gideon said flatly.

"We could put her cell phone on," Morgan contributed. "Speaker it, put it in her pocket. Listen to everything the guy says, and if there's any trouble …"

"No!" Gideon repeated. "I am not sending _her_ into that house alone to find out if the man’s a psychotic killer."

"Not alone," Morgan agreed. "With you. Friend of the family. Uncle. Whatever. Still nothing official, nothing to set him off."

"No."

There was a moment of silence. Gideon walked to the far side of the room and glared out the window.

"We could put the house under surveillance," Prentiss offered. "See if we can get enough to get a warrant."

"That could take days," Morgan answered. "We may not have days."

There was silence again. Then Constance crossed to Gideon and stood between him and the window. Took his hands. And twisted the knife. "My dad would trust me to do this."

He spun away from her. "Don’t."

"You know I’m right."

"Tony’s not here. I am. And I am not going to risk your life."

"We’ll be right outside, Jason," Hotch said quietly. "We'll kick the door at the first sign of trouble."

"He’s not an aggressor," Reid offered. "He didn’t confront Miranda and drag her away. He waited, he planned, he lured her in. He’s not likely to attack without warning."

"Unless he’s cornered," Gideon snarled.

"You’ll be right there with her," Morgan said. "And we’ll be right behind you."

Constance spoke to his back. "We both know what my life will be if we can’t find her, Jason. Please. Please trust me. I’ve got to do this."

He turned and looked at her. Spread his hands helplessly. "I could lose my girl."

Her eyes filled with tears again. "You’re already losing me. A drop of hope at a time." And then, again, "Please?"

Gideon considered for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "All right. We’ll go together."

As the woman rushed into his arms, Reid cleared his throat regretfully. "Ah … that won’t work."

"Why?" Hotch demanded.

Reid gestured towards the study. "The wall. The electrician hung all the pictures back up for Miranda. There are four of Gideon."

"He still might be a family friend," Morgan argued.

"Maybe," Reid said. "But …"

"There’s one in his office," Garcia said, pointing. "Nameplate and seal on the desk."

Constance said something against Gideon’s shoulder. It was a language none of them spoke, but the inflection left no doubt about its meaning. He held her very tightly.

"This could still work," Prentiss said. "We’ll send her with someone else. I could go."

"No," Gideon said.

Garcia moved further into the room. "Reid could be her boyfriend."

The young genius sputtered. "Me? I can’t … I can’t …"

"Just for pretend," Garcia clarified. "He’s young enough. And he’ll remember everything he sees."

"I … but I … of course, I’ll go, but …"

Hotchner held up his hand for silence.

In the center of the room, Constance lifted her head and looked at Gideon. What passed between them, between her huge green eyes and his deep brown ones, wasn’t meant to be witnessed by outsiders. The doubts, the fears, the guilt, the grief. The hope. And the trust. "Reid," Gideon said, never looking away from the young woman.

"Yes?"

"Don’t let anything happen to my girl."

 


	8. Chapter 8

The Suburban held much of the equipment they needed. The only thing it didn’t have was concealable microphones. The BAU cobbled a system together swiftly. Outside team members could communicate with each other on their standard radios. Reid and Constance would both have their cell phones on and concealed, so that the others could hear what was going on.

"So many ways this could go wrong," Prentiss said, shaking her head.

"Get in the truck," Morgan advised.  He tucked Reid’s sidearm beneath the seat.

Cooper’s house was two up from the cross street. Hotch circled the block as slowly as he dared. Ordinary residential lay-out, houses with garages in the back, backing against the garages on the next block. There was a vacant lot across from Cooper’s house; the house there had evidently burned down years before. Not a lot of yard space between the houses; lots of cover.

He stopped on the next block and let Prentiss and Morgan out. "Stay out of sight," he warned. 

"We have done this before," Morgan reminded him.

"Not with my girl in the cross-fire," Gideon snapped.

Morgan shut the door and slapped it twice. The house before them seemed empty; no lights, no car in the driveway. He moved to the garage and made his way through the weeds to the back of Cooper’s garage.

It began to rain again.

Hotchner parked the Suburban at the end of the cross-street. They had a view of the house, partially obstructed by an oak three, but unless Cooper actually came out on his porch, he was unlikely to see them. JJ moved up from the very back to the middle seat.

"Everybody good?" he asked.

"We’re damp," Prentiss reported, "but we’re good."

"All right. Garcia? Anything new?"

From Miranda's house, the computer tech said, "Little something. Cooper never worked on the airport cameras. But he did some work for Desmond Electric, who did. I talked to the owner. They were supposed to be on a house yesterday – Cooper, too – but they had to reschedule because they got called to the airport."

"So he might have known," Morgan answered quietly, "that the cameras weren't working."

"He may not be as organized as we thought," Gideon muttered. "Reid, keep your head up. He may be impulsive."

"Got it," Reid answered. "We ready?"

Hotch looked at Gideon, in the passenger seat. The senior agent was wound like a spring, silent. "We're ready. Go."

Thirty seconds passed before the gold Jaguar slid to a stop at the curb across from Cooper’s house. Reid got out quickly and went to open the driver’s door for the girl.

"Did you know he couldn’t drive?" Hotch asked.

Gideon growled. "He can drive. Just not Tony’s car.”

"I thought it was just to give Zee something to do," Garcia offered over the radio.  

Hotch shifted his shoulder so he didn’t have to crane his neck. The couple – hand-in-hand – climbed the porch steps. "Here we go."

 ***

Garcia stared at the computer, then looked up at Tony Ford's flag. It felt weird to be alone in his house. Not his house, not any more. Still, it was weird.

On a hunch, she stood up and took the flag case down.

There was nothing behind it but two hooks to hang it on.

Reverently, she hung it back up. Just shadows she was seeing. No one was watching her.

She looked at the next picture. No one was watching her. But since all she had to do was listen to the radio for now, it wouldn't hurt to look.

She dragged a chair over and started looking behind every picture.

 ***

Reid rang the doorbell, listened for it to chime inside. It didn’t. He opened the storm door and rapped sharply on the inner door. Nothing happened.

He stepped to the edge of the porch and looked around. The truck – red, battered, customized to hold tools – was in the driveway, in front of the garage.

He knocked again.

There were footsteps, and then the inner door opened.

Robert Cooper stared at them. He was a smallish man, maybe five foot six, 125 pounds. Fifty, graying hair, badly cut. Jeans, flannel shirt, one cuff torn, over a white t-shirt. Slippers. Cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. The smell of tobacco wafted out the door and into the rainy air. Reid dialed his age estimate downward. Forty to forty-five, but steeped in nicotine.

"Yeah?" the man said. Then he looked at Constance. His straightened up; his mouth clenched around his cigarette. "Hey. Zee."

She smiled nervously. "Hi, Mr. Cooper. I, um, I hate to bother you."

"I thought you were up at school."

Reid could see the girl trembling. He put his arm around her shoulders awkwardly.

"I'm home for the weekend."

"Oh." Cooper made no move to invite them in. "What’s up?"

"It’s my mom," Constance said. Even her voice shook. "Miranda. She, um, she didn’t come home last night, and I was just wondering …"

Cooper shook his head. "Haven’t seen her," he answered quickly. His body was rigid with tension.

"I didn’t think you had, really. I’m just … I’m going everywhere I can think of, calling everybody I know," the girl continued. The desperation welled in her voice, and Reid’s grip tightened. But her fear made her convincing, as long as she could control it. "I just … I don’t know where else to look."

"We’ve been all over," Reid said. "I told her you wouldn’t know where her mom was, but she …" He gestured behind her, the time-honored palms-raised shrug between men that said, ‘Women. You know how they are.’  

Cooper relaxed a notch. "I’m really sorry, kid. The last I heard from her was … oh, maybe a week ago? She sent me an e-mail, said she was having trouble with the garage door. Wanted me to come fix it when she got home. She was over in London, wasn’t she?"

At least one lie, Reid noted, and one very specific piece of information. London, not Europe. But still no backing away from the door, no invitation inside.

Constance nodded miserably. "She was supposed to come home last night," she said. She rubbed her eyes. "I’m sorry we bothered you, I just … I just …"

"I know. Hell, every time I been over there, she brags on you. You know that? Every single time. Zee’s up at school doing this, Zee’s doing that."

Constance sniffed. "I just don’t understand why she wouldn’t at least call me."

"Maybe she lost her cell phone," Cooper suggested. "Or broke it."

"That’s what I said," Reid agreed.

"There are payphones everywhere," Constance countered.

"Yeah," Cooper said, "but find one that works when you need it. Look, kid, don’t worry, okay? I’m sure she’s fine, wherever she is."

They were not, Reid realized, going to get into the house. "C’mon," he said, steering the girl away, "let’s go. You’re getting soaked."

"Good luck, kid."

Constance started off the porch, then stopped and turned to Reid. "Do you still have that list?"

He almost grinned. They’d rehearsed a little in the car. She was much better than he’d expected. Much better than he was. He dug into his coat pocket, brought out a battered sheet of filler paper. "Right here. Why?"

She turned back to Cooper. "I was wondering … I know we already bothered you enough, but … do you have any idea where this guy lives?" She pointed awkwardly to the sheet. "This Tom Naso? He’s a carpenter. He worked on our house after the fire. But he’s not in the phone book."

"He should be," Cooper said. "He’s been in business a long time. I think I got his card here somewhere. Hang on, I’ll find it." He turned from the door, dropped his cigarette in an ashtray, then turned back. "Here, come on in out of the rain. It might take a minute."

 ***

"They’re in," Hotch said quietly to his radio.

"Took ‘em long enough," Morgan answered.

 ***

The smell of smoke was smothering in the house. The walls, the curtains, the tile floor in the entryway, all were yellow with it. There were eight ashtrays in the living room alone, all of them overflowing. A blue haze hovered near the ceiling. Through the archway, Reid could see a cigarette carton on the kitchen counter, torn open and half-empty. He could almost feel the smoke soaking into his clothes, his hair. He was getting a contact buzz just from breathing it.

Cooper stopped to shake out another smoke and light it. "Naso, Naso," he said. "Maybe by the phone."  


He went into the kitchen. Reid followed, careful to keep Constance behind him. Ordinary kitchen, ugly peeling table, old appliances, pine cupboards, yellow floor. Dirty, in addition to the smoke stains. Dishes in the sink, lots of them, impossible to tell if he was cooking for one or two.

Nothing as convenient, of course, as Miranda’s luggage in the corner.

Through the back door, he could see the garage. It comforted him. Next to that, a door opening onto a small, ugly half-bath. Another door on the other side, maybe a closet or basement stairs. Tightly shut.  

The man ruffled through a pile of papers on the counter. He looked up, seemed surprised to see them in the kitchen. "Ah, let’s see. Not here, now where was that thing? Just had it last week, giving it to this customer over on Waverly …" He frowned. "Maybe still in my coat pocket."

He moved to the second door and opened it. Stairway, with coat hooks on the far wall of the landing. He began going through his pockets.

The smell came from the basement, softly, subtly, a new layer under the sea of tobacco smoke.

Reid felt himself coiling. He knew that smell. Oh, God, but he knew that smell. The man continued to rummage. There was every chance that Cooper couldn't smell it at all. But Reid knew that smell.

He hoped against hope that the woman beside him wouldn't notice.

"Oh, God," Constance said.

Cooper turned, alarmed. "Something wrong?"

"She's … um …" Reid blurted. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it hard. "She's …"

" _Je besoin de gerber_ ," Constance muttered.

Reid didn't need a translation; he recognized the pressed-white lips, the compulsive swallowing. He said, frantically, "Bathroom?"

Cooper pointed. Reid spun and propelled her in that direction. Constance did not resist. She was weightless, limp, her face white with a greenish tinge. She rather fell into the tiny bathroom and Reid pulled the door shut behind her.  

Then he turned, slowly, back to Cooper.  

 ***

Garcia jumped down from the chair and hunched over her radio. She hadn't found anything. And Reid was in trouble.

 ***

"What just happened?" Hotch demanded. "What is it?"

"I'm going in," Gideon announced.

He was already opening the door. It took Hotchner and JJ both to restrain him. "Wait!" Hotch ordered. "Just wait!"

"Let me go …"

"Shut up!" Morgan barked over the radio. "Listen!"

Constance was whispering into her phone, talking to them – in a language none of them spoke.

 ***

"She's, ah, she's been doing that all day," Reid apologized. He kept his shoulder against the bathroom door, between the suspect – the killer – and the girl. As if on cue, from behind the door there came the unmistakable sound of vomiting.

Cooper, who had been watching warily, was visibly convinced.  

Reid took a deep breath and reassessed. Cooper didn't know they knew he had a body in the basement. Constance was out of the room, safe in the tiny bathroom behind him. There were no weapons in evidence. His phone felt heavy and reassuring in his pocket; the team was fifteen seconds away. He had to let them know, somehow, that there was a body. They needed back-up. Maybe Constance, behind the closed door …

Cooper shook his head. "She knocked up?"

"Oh, God, I hope not," Reid answered sincerely. "I think it's just the stress. Her mom and all."

"I'm sure Miranda will turn up."

Reid's heart sank. The body in the basement was too old to be Miranda Grail. But where there was one, there might be others. Odds on Constance's mother being alive had just sunk precipitously.

But at the moment, he had other concerns.

 ***

"Talk to her," Hotch hissed.

Gideon stared at him.

"Talk to her," Hotch said again. "She needs to hear your voice. Whatever's happened in there, she needs you."

Gideon licked his lips. Then he leaned towards the phone and whispered, "Zee? Zee?"

She answered, just as quietly, " _Tio_?"

"In English, Zee."

"Wait," she breathed.

There was the sound of more vomiting.

"I'm going in," Gideon announced again.

"Wait."

 ***

"You, uh, you have any kids?" Reid asked. He was uncomfortable, nervous, but it read right and he knew it. He was half-ready for Gideon to kick the front door open.

"Me? No," Cooper answered. "Never been married. I mean, not that you need to be, but, you know." He settled one hip on the edge of the table. "You think that's it, huh?"

Reid shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe." Behind him, he could hear water running.  "I'm sorry about this, we should … I mean, when she's done we'll go …"

"No problem," Cooper answered. He glanced towards the basement door, then went and searched his pockets again. "Here is it." He closed the door firmly behind him and brought a grubby business card to Reid.

 ***

Constance whispered again, over water in the background, but this time in English. "There's something dead here."

Gideon tucked his chin down, closed his eyes. "What, Peanut? What is it?"

"I don't know. I can smell it."

"Zee …"

"Spencer smells it, too. It's in the basement."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." Her voice cracked in a frightened sob.

Hotch turned, gestured, but JJ was already on her own cell phone, talking softly and urgently to the local police.

Gideon looked up. "Zee, listen to me. It's not your mother. It's not Miranda."

There was only running water.

"Zee, listen to me," Gideon repeated urgently. "That is not Miranda in the basement. Do you hear me? Think, Zee. Your mother hasn't been missing long enough. If you can smell it, whatever it is, it's been dead for days. Do you understand?"

A gasp and a sniffle. "You sure?" she asked, in a five-year-old's voice.  

"I'm sure, Peanut. Now get out of the house."

"You're _sure_?" she asked again. 

"I promise. Now get Reid and get out. We've got back-up coming."

There was another long silence.

"Zee?"

"Okay."

The water stopped. A door opened and closed.

 ***

"I'm so sorry," Constance said to Cooper as she left the bathroom. She patted her coat pocket. "I've been doing that all day. I think I've got the flu or something."

"Yeah," he grinned softly, "we were thinking maybe you caught something."

She looked to Reid, who nodded once. He'd gotten the signal. "We should go," he said. "I got the address for Naso." He put his arm around her waist, part show, part to hold her up. She was still dead white. "Mr. Cooper doesn't know anything about your mom. We should just go."

Constance nodded, sighed. "I'm really sorry," she said again, gesturing to the bathroom. "And I'm sorry we bothered you. I just … I don't know where else to look."

Cooper was all kindness. "If there's anything I can do, Zee. Anything at all."

"If you hear from her …" She waved vaguely. "I don't know why you would, but …"

"I'll call you right away."

"Thank you."

"Sure."

Cooper walked them to the front door and watched them out. Reid moved slowly, half-carrying the girl. He hadn't heard the storm door shut; he could feel the man's eyes on his back. He hoped to hell it wasn't the man's gun he felt. But the truck was there, at the end of the street. The team was there, they had him, they had his back. And her back. They walked down the driveway, reached the front sidewalk. Almost there. Just get her to the car …

Constance stopped in her tracks and turned to him. Her pupils were huge, and her body shook like a leaf. "How long?" she said quietly.

Reid kept his arms around her, loosely. Ready, he realized, to throw her to the ground at the first sign of attack from the house. "How long what?"

"Until they get here. The cops."

"Two minutes, tops."

"Is he still watching us?"

He resisted the urge to look back towards the house. "Count on it."

Tears of fear gathered in her eyes, but she resisted his subtle pressing toward the car. "If she's still alive … if he'll watch us …"

"Until we leave," Reid agreed. He nodded, understanding. "If you don't get in that car, Gideon will shoot me."

She took a deep breath. Then she put both palms on his chest and pushed away from him. "No," she said loudly, "we are _not_ going to just go home and wait."

"But you just said you don't know where else to look!" Reid yelled back. "We've been tramping around all afternoon, it's almost dark, you’re sick … at least let's get something to eat."

 ***

"Oh, my God," Gideon muttered. "What are they doing?"

"What's happening?" Garcia demanded over the radio.

"They're stalling," JJ answered.

Gideon glared at her. "I know that."

"Cooper'll watch them until they leave," Hotch said. "She thinks her mother's alive."

Gideon shook his head. "Reid, get her out of there."   

"Morgan," Hotch said, "you ready?"

"Moving up now," Morgan’s hushed voice answered.

 ***

"Eat? Something to eat? How can you even think about eating right now?"

Reid threw his hands up. "Hey, I have been running around looking for your mother all afternoon. I have not eaten since breakfast. I'm starving. Now I'll help you any way I can, but it's not going to make some major difference if we stop for a burger, is it?"

"No, fine. Fine. Tell you what, let's go home and I'll make you a four-course meal. And we can get back to looking at what, midnight? That's fine. That's just fine."

"You're being unreasonable."

"I am not being unreasonable!" She stomped her foot for emphasis. "I am not … not …"

She crumpled, and Reid caught her, held her. "I can't do this," Constance whispered.

"You're doing fine," he murmured back. He shifted his grip into a more likely embrace, patted her back. "Just fine. Thirty seconds of making up and the cops should be here."

"If they're not all on a dinner break."

"Shhh. Listen." In the distance, the faint cry of a siren. Reid nodded. "Good. Get in the car."

"No, I …"

"Uh-uh. Get in the car." He put his arm around her and pushed. "In the car. Now."

 ***

"They're clear," Hotch said.

"I got locals coming up the back," Morgan reported.

"Good." He looked up. There was a patrol car coming towards him, lights but no sirens.

"Hotch?" Reid said over the phone.

"We’re here."

"The body’s in the basement. The door’s to the left of the back door. Cooper appears to be alone. I didn’t see any weapons."

"Good work. Keep her in the car."

"You got it."

Gideon took his seatbelt off. "Let's go."

 ***

Hotchner threw the truck into gear and roared it around the corner, down the street and across Cooper's lawn right up to the front porch. Cooper saw them coming; he slammed the door and ran. Morgan and Prentiss were already in the kitchen. Cooper skidded to a stop, tried to run back, but by then the front door was flying open. Gideon caught him mid-step and threw him to the filthy living room floor.

In the instant it took Gideon to draw his fist back, Cooper covered his face with his hands. "Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!"

Gideon would have hit him anyhow, but Hotchner had his arm. Instead, he dragged the man to his feet and shoved him at the bewildered chief of police. The house was suddenly full of cops. Prentiss was covering at the top of the steps; Morgan had gone down first. Gideon followed him swiftly.

The stairs were wood, old, dim. The smell of decomposition grew worse with every step. But Gideon had guessed right; this body was far too old to have been alive on an airplane the day before.

"Here," Morgan called. Against the far wall, a heap in a heavy-duty black trash bag.

Gideon shook his head and moved past it. Past the washer and dryer, past the ancient hulking furnace. To a filthy mattress on the floor in the corner, where the woman was bound and gagged, bruised and terrified.

And very definitely still alive.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_Jane Howard said, "Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one."_

 ***

Spencer Reid practically bounced out of the elevator and strode across the lobby to sign the young woman in.

Her big green eyes were shining, and she smiled warmly at him. Constance Grail was very pretty when she wasn't scared.

Beside her were two big shopping bags. They smelled like warm bread. The agents at the visitors' desk were already munching on fresh bagels.

"Hey," Reid said eloquently.

"Hey yourself."

He signed her in swiftly, then gestured to the bags. "What's that?"

"Breakfast." She picked up the bags, handed one to him.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Most important meal of the day." Constance followed him onto the elevator. "And you'll be lucky if I don't decide to bring them to you every week."

"That'd be okay," Reid answered. "Then I'd get to see you every week." He winced, hoping she'd heard that as friendly interest in breakfast rather than in her. "How's your mom?" he asked.

"She's good," Constance answered. "She was very frightened at first – which was terrifying – but now she's starting to be angry."

"That's good, right?"

"Well, Miranda angry Does Things. She's already talking about getting the police chief fired. It's a little alarming." She shrugged. "It's easier than seeing her scared."

Reid nodded. He knew precisely what she meant, better than she could imagine.

They had found three more women, including Mrs. Mosby, buried in the vacant lot across from Cooper's house. They'd been killed roughly six months apart. They'd also found the grave Cooper had been trying to dig for the corpse still in the basement. The rain-saturated ground had caved in the walls of the hole.

The frustration and fear of having the body rot in his basement had driven Cooper to take another victim far sooner than he'd planned. To take her on impulse, with very little planning. To take one whose daughter happened to be home from college and waiting for her.

Cooper had told them everything. He hadn't planned to abduct Miranda at all; he knew her husband had been with the FBI, he knew she was in regular contact with her daughter; he knew she'd be missed. But he'd tried all night to dig a hole and get rid of the stinking corpse, and he found himself trapped in the house with it for another whole day. And it was still raining. He had a job lined up for the day, but the contractor called and cancelled. So when Miranda's e-mail came in, giving him tantalizing clues to her itinerary, it had seemed like Fate offering a sacrifice to his desires. It was a simple matter of tracking which airlines had cancelled flights from London, guessing which flight she'd be on, and waiting for her.

There had been four other electrician's trucks in the white zone; airport staff hadn't even noticed him.

Cooper had told them everything, in exchange for two cigarettes.

Gideon had gone to the hospital and told Constance and her mother everything they'd learned. It was terrifying to them, naturally, but they were BAU family; they could understand it, could process it. Armed with a reasonable knowledge of the case, and with Constance's long-standing therapist on hand, they could begin to put it behind them. 

"They're going to let me work on my dissertation at home for a while," Constance continued. "And we'll see where we are from there. It'll be okay." With her free hand she dug into her purse. "You, um, you should have this back." She held out his business card, badly crumpled.

"You can keep it," Reid said.

"If I keep it, I'll end up calling you at three in the morning."

"I said you could."

"I know, and I appreciate it. But now that I have my mom back, I'll end up waking you up for no good reason.

"You won't wake me up. I don't sleep." Constance looked at him quizzically. "To sleep, perchance to dream," Reid explained.

"Ay, and there's the rub." She smiled grimly and put the card back.

Reid swallowed. "I wouldn't … I wouldn't mind if you called. Whenever. Even for no good reason."

Constance studied him again. The elevator stopped. She grinned shyly. "Well, maybe when the transference wears off a little."

Reid blushed, started to stammer something stupid, but Morgan saved him by swarming over the bagels. "These are the ones Ford used to bring, aren’t they?" he asked eagerly. He dragged them to the break area and began unloading the breakfast onto the table.

Constance nodded. "From the secret bagel bakery."

"Best bagels I ever had in my life. He never would tell us where he got them, you know."

"I know."

Morgan waited. "Ah, come on. You can tell us now."

"I can," Constance agreed, "but I won’t."

The agent paused, considering the bags. "I’ll put Garcia on it. I bet we can figure out where these came from."

The girl laughed. "Gideon in?"

"In his office."

"Cool." She snagged a bagel and a packet of cream cheese and left them to the breakfast.

Hotch came out of his office as she climbed the steps. "Hey, Zee, how’s your mom?"

"Getting angry."

"Good. I thought I smelled bagels."

She smiled and pointed. "You better be quick, though." As he started off, she called, "Hey, Hotch? Thank you."

He smiled, a little embarrassed, and nodded, and went down the stairs.

"Hey," Constance called from the door of Gideon’s office. "I brought breakfast." She crossed to his desk and put down the bagel.

Gideon smiled up at her. "You didn’t have to do that."

"If one is entrusted with the location of the secret divine bagel bakery, one must occasionally deliver."

"Mmm." He left the bagel and came around the desk to hug her. "Miranda okay?"

Constance nodded. "They think she’s coming home tonight."

"You want me to come and stay with you?"

"No, we’ll be all right. For some reason the local police are suddenly very attentive. We have a patrol car by the house every fifteen minutes. But thank you."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

Gideon studied her for a minute. He’d known her most of her life; for the first time, she looked like an adult. It was sweet, and also sad. "You did very well the other day. Your dad would be proud of you." He shrugged. "He was always proud of you."

"I know." She gestured, and he sat on the couch with her. "Can I ask you something? How do you remember him?"

Gideon looked away. "I don’t think I understand the question."

"Yes, you do. When you hear his name, what do you think of?"

 

_The shock wave hit before the noise, knocking him to his knees. Bale fell sideways, grinning. Gideon turned and saw the orange, the black, and then the noise came. Heard one scream, just one, and he knew it was his friend …_

_… hands tried to hold him back, but he was up, running, into the building …_

_Ford on his back in a widening pool of red, pieces of sharp black all over him, burns, some, but mostly blood. One last gasp for air and then he stopped, his eyes open and blank. Gideon dropped to his knees next to him and felt his neck for a pulse. His hand came away wet, slick, red._

_Made a fist and hit him, hard, right over the sternum, hard. Nothing. Hit him again. Nothing. One hand over the other at the center of his chest, lock the elbows out and push, push with his full weight …_

_… with every push, blood spurted from his friend, from the dozens of shrapnel wounds, spurted in a fountain from his neck …_

_… never mind, push, push harder …_

_…the ribs cracked like kindling under his hands, the blood spurted from Ford’s neck, Gideon’s pants were soaked with his, his hands covered, slippery …_

_… never mind, push, push, Tony couldn’t die, not like this, not because Gideon had told him it was safe …_

_…hands again, pulling him away, but Gideon shook them off, push, push …_

_…the fountain sputtered as the supply ran out, first a trickle and then nothing …_

_…firmer hands, dragging him to his feet …_

 

He looked at the young woman. He could never tell her, never.

He didn’t have to. She knew exactly what he was thinking. "You know what I remember?" she asked gently.

Gideon shook his head, speechless in his own pain.

"I remember us following you up to your cabin to catch the raccoon that kept getting in your trash. And driving home with the top down in a snowstorm in Dad’s Jag because the raccoon turned out to be a skunk."

Gideon nodded. He remembered.

"I remember when I called him from school once because the voices were too loud and the principal wouldn’t let me go home. And you and Dad kicked the office door open, badges out, guns cleared, and marched me out of there like you were taking me to Leavenworth."

Gideon sighed. That had been a brilliant day. They’d taken the afternoon off, taken the girl to lunch. A Japanese hibachi place.

Constance went on. "I remember when Jake Sullivan took me to the prom. And I came down the steps in this strapless black dress, and Jake was sitting at the table with you and my dad, and the two of you were cleaning your guns. And the entire table was covered with weapons, enough guns for a SWAT team, and Jake’s eyes were this big and he couldn’t even talk."

At last, Gideon smiled. The smile grew bigger as the memory took hold. She’d been fourteen years old. They had borrowed weapons from everyone at Quantico. Strictly for show, of course. "And he never laid a hand on you."

The girl snorted. "We’ll talk about that another day. The point is, you haven’t had any of _those_ memories for three years, have you?"

Gideon shook his head. "No."

"There’s a trick to it," Constance informed him. "If you let go of Boston, you get to keep Tony."

"You make it sound easy."

"It's not easy," she answered. "It's hard work. And it's way past time you got started."

Gideon sat back and looked at her. She had been a remarkable girl. She was a remarkable woman. "'Were I not thine only nurse,'" he quoted softly, "'I would say thou hast suck'd wisdom from thy teat.'"

The girl laughed out loud. "Now _there's_ a disturbing image." She shook her head. "I'm not wise. I've just been in therapy forever."

"I think you would be wise anyhow."

Constance beamed at him. "He'd be proud of you too, you know. Tony. For getting back out there, on the tightrope." She had to see the uncertainty flicker in his eyes. "I have something for you." She reached into her purse and brought out a small package wrapped in tissue paper.

"You didn't have to do that."

"You didn't have to trust me." She watched as he unwrapped the framed photo – Gideon, Ford, Constance between them with an enormous fish. "It's for your collection," she said, nodding towards his credenza of photos.

Gideon smiled at the picture, but shook his head. "Those are children that I've rescued," he reminded her gently.

"Duh," she answered. "How many time now have you rescued me?"

_And how deeply have I injured you?_ Gideon thought. But he understood, too. And perhaps, in a way, she was right. He put down the picture and gathered her in his arms. She had not said it, probably hadn't even thought it, but there was another truth. _If he could let go of Boston, he got to keep his girl, too._

It was not the way he would have had it. He would gladly have given his life to take back that one moment in Boston. Would gladly trade places with Ford right now. But it could not be, and all his regrets could not make it so. He could only go forward. Back onto the tightrope. "My girl," he said softly, warmly. And though it would take time, and work, he felt for the first time the beginning of peace in his heart.

 ***

_Karl Wallenda said, "Being on the tightrope is living; everything else is waiting."_  
  
The End

 


End file.
